UC-NRLF 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

OIF'T  OK 


Received 
Accession  No.  &  £~£L  93      Class  No. 


BY 

HESTER  A.  BENEDICT 


BUFFALO 

CHARLES  WELLS  MOULTON 
1895 


COPYRIGHT,  1895, 
BY  HESTER  A.  BENEDICT. 


PRINTED   BY 

CHARLES  WELLS  MOULTON, 
BUFFALO,  N.  Y. 


TO 

HON.  LYMAN  W.  HALL. 


UP    FROM    DUSK-LAND    AND    DREAMLAND    I    BRING 
THESE     FAGOTS     TO     THE      HEARTHSTONE     OF 

>  -V 

YOUR    HEART,     MY    FATHER'S     FRIEND    AND 
MINE,  THAT  WITH   THEM   YOU   MAY   LIGHT 
TO    FRESHER      LIFE     THE     MEMORY     OF 
ONE     WHO     OWES    TO     YOUR     FAITH 
FUL  FRIENDSHIP  AND  WISE  DIREC 
TION    WHATEVER    OF    WORTH     IS 
IN    THE    SONG    SHE    SINGS. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Spirit  of  Song 9 

Only  A  Woman « 

On  the  Shoreland 13 

Three-score  Years 15 

To-day  and  Forever 18 

Father  and  Child 19 

Laura 21 

What  She  Owns       22 

Overheard 25 

Unconfessed 27 

Across  the  Years 28 

If  You  Know 30 

Two  Hours 32 

Her  Lover 34 

Barbara 36 

"  In  the  Old  Likeness  " 3» 

Come  With  the  Spring  Wind  and  Blossoms     .  39 

Nothing  to  Us 41 

Dream  By  the  Sea 43 

You  and  I  Know 46 

My  Little  Love 48 

Paupers 5° 

With  You 52 

With  Pansies 54 

What  Shall  I  Say 55 

Jonny  and  I 57 


vi  CONTENTS. 

At  the  Gate 59 

My  Girl 61 

Marguerite 63 

For  Love's  Sweet  Sake 65 

A  Wise  Waif 67 

Dowered 69 

Before  the  Ball 72 

Through  the  Snow 75 

Away  from  Me 77 

A  Lesson 78 

Derelictus 79 

Where  the  Tidal  Waves  Come  In 80 

Always 81 

Homeward 83 

Last  Words 85 

After  Years 86 

Bijou 88 

Lost 90 

Her  Answer 92 

Haunting  the  Hollow 94 

O  Summer,  Dear  Summer 95 

When  the  Shadows  Come  Again 97 

Elleanore 99 

In  the  Waltz  .   .                                                 .  101 


FAGOTS 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  SONG. 

WITH  bosom  where  burdensome  breath  is, 

From  rocks  where  a  beautiful  bark 
Lieth  wreck'd  in  the  caverns  where  death  is, 

I  rise  like  a  ghost  in  the  dark 
Crying  out  to  thee,  Come  from  thy  palace, 

Thy  palace  where  praises  belong, 
And  hold  to  my  white  lips  thy  chalice, 

O,  comforting  Spirit  of  Song! 


O'er  the  path  of  my  past  thou  hast  fluttered 

Sometimes  like  a  breeze  o'er  the  sea, 
And  a  few  of  all  words  I  have  uttered, 

Had  in  them  a  little  of  thee. 
It  is  not  enough!    Do  the  shadows 

Of  ships  that  are  stately  and  strong 
Save  the  drowning  ?  or  dreams  of  old  meadows 

Where  home  is  ?  O,  Spirit  of  Song! 

Nay,  nay!  hold  me  hard!    I  am  done  with 

All  things  that  the  world  deemeth  dear; 
All  dreams  that  my  lone  life  begun  with 

Forever  and  ever  end  here — 
Save  its  one  dream  of  thee.    Lo!  I  cover 

Them  carefully,  crying  to  thee: 
Be  more  than  a  mother  or  lover, 

Henceforth  and  forever  to  me! 


10 


FAGOTS. 

Be  life  of  my  life!  be  the  duty 

That  life's  weary  way  making  sweet! 
Be  brightness,  be  bloom  and  be  beauty 

Be  calm  and  be  comfort  complete! 
Forgetting  to  weep  or  to  wonder 

Grown  quiet,  majestic  and  strong, 
Let  me  be  like  an  immortelle  under 

Thy  mantle,  O,  Spirit  of  Song! 

Hand  in  hand  let  us  con  the  old  pages 

By  poet-souls  written  and  read; 
Heart  to  heart  let  us  traverse  old  ages 

By  poet-lips  never  named  dead; 
By  a  ladder  more  rosy  than  roses, 

'Neath  banners  by  angels  unfurled, 
Let  us  climb  where  heaven's  portal  uncloses 

High  over  a  wondering  world. 

Behold  me!  I  lay  on  thine  altar 

All  days  and  all  deeds  I  have  loved; 
All  faith  that  my  soul  has  seen  falter; 

All  loves  I  have  proved  or  disproved. 
And  I  swear  by  my  life  that  was  lonely, 

By  my  soul  that  with  thee  waxeth  strong, 
Evermore  to  be  thine,  and  thine  only, 

Thou  comforting  Spirit  of  Song! 


FAGOTS.  n 


ONLY  A  WOMAN. 

ONLY  a  woman,  shriveled  and  old, 
The  play  of  the  winds  and  the  prey  of  the  cold! 
Cheeks  that  are  shrunken, 
Eyes  that  are  sunken, 
Lips  that  were  never  o'erbold; 
Only  a  woman,  forsaken  and  poor, 
Asking  an  alms  at  the  bronze  church  door. 

Hark  to  the  organ!  roll  upon  roll 

The  waves  of  its  music  go  over  her  soul! 

Silks  rustle  past  her 

Thicker  and  faster;  . 

The  great  bell  ceases  its  toll, 
Fain  would  she  enter,  but  not  for  the  poor 
Swingeth  wide  open  the  bronze  church  door. 

Only  a  woman — waiting  alone, 

Icily  cold  on  an  ice-cold  throne. 

What  do  they  care  for  her  ? 
Mumbling  a  prayer  for  her, 
Giving  not  bread  but  a  stone. 

Under  old  laces  their  haughty  hearts  beat, 

Mocking  the  woes  of  their  kin  in  the  street. 

Only  a  woman!  In  the  old  days 

Hope  caroled  to  her,  her  happiest  lays; 

Somebody  missed  her, 

Somebody  kissed  her, 


12  FAGOTS. 

Somebody  crowned  her  with  praise; 
Somebody  faced  up  the  battles  of  life 
Strong  for  her  sake  who  was  mother,  or  wife. 

Somebody  lies  with  a  tress  of  her  hair 

Light  on  his  heart  where  the  death-shadows  are; 

Somebody  waits  for  her, 

Opening  the  gates  for  her, 

Giving  delight  for  despair. 
Only  a  woman — nevermore  poor — 
Dead  in  the  snow  at  the  bronze  church  door! 


FAGOTS.  13 


ON  THE  SHORELAND. 

WIND  that  I  know  not,  if  nothing  will  stay  you 

From  my  own  lattice  where  moonlight  is  fair, 
If  nothing  will  stay  you,  be  wary  I  pray  you, 

How  you  sail  into  and  out  of  my  hair. 
Let  it  be  lightly  for  love  of  the  loving; 

Let  it  be  softly  for  sake  of  the  sweet; 
Lightly  and  softly  forever,  O  roving 

Wind  from  the  somewhere  where  mysteries 
meet, 

For,  when  my  darling  one  sailed  to  Vanesses, 

Over  the  heart  of  the  treacherous  sea, 
He  left  in  my  tresses  a  world  of  caresses — 

True  as  the  truest  of  lovers'  may  be. 
And  in  the  night-time  when  sleep  cometh  softly, 

And  in  the  morning  when  sunrise  is  sweet, 
I  whisper  a  prayer  for  him  oftly  and  oftly, 

Adding,  "  God  hasten  the  hour  when  we  meet!" 

Years  they  are  coming,  and  years  they  are  going, 

Still  not  a  sign  of  his  ship  on  the  sea, 
And  in  the  waves  flowing  not  anything  showing 

What  it  is  keeping  my  darling  from  me. 
Oh!  but  to  see  his  white  sails  in  the  harbor! 

Oh!  but  to  hear  his  call  answering  mine! 
Oh!  for  his  feet  in  my  jessamine  arbor! 

Oh!  for  the  raptures  of  days  of  lang  syne! 


i4  FAGOTS. 

What  shall  I  do  ?  Oh!  will  any  one  tell  me 

What  I  shall  do  with  my  heart  that  is  his, 
When  it  calleth  for  comfort,  with  cryings  that  kill 
me, 

Hard  from  the  heart  of  the  waiting  that  is  ? 
What  shall  I  do  with  its  desolate  aching  ? 

What  with  its  pulses  of  passionate  pain  ? 
What  with  its  bondage,  and  what  with  its  break 
ing, 

If  he  comes  back  to  me  never  again  ? 

I  will  say,  "Father,  whose  palm  hath  the  pillows 

Of  the  dear  sleepers  on  shoreland  and  sea, 
Guarding  the  willows  and  guarding  the  billows, 

Give  of  thy  pity  a  little  to  me! 
And,  till  the  hour  when  death  cometh  kindly, 

And,  till  the  morning  forevermore  fair, 
Feeling  my  way  to  him  through  the  dark  blindly, 

Leave  me,  for  comfort,  his  kiss  in  my  hair.  " 


FAGOTS.  15 


THREE-SCORE  YEARS. 

You  are  saying  the  strange  words  over  and  over, 

Leaning  your  cheek  on  your  tremulous  palm, 
And  watching — just  over  the  fallen-down  clover — 

The  orchard  asleep  in  a  midwinter  calm. 
The  orchard  where  fluttered,  in  times  unforgotten, 

The  little  bright  locks,  and  the  little  light  feet, 
And  the  little,  low  laughs  of  the  children  begotten 

Of  love  that  you  think  of  as  loyal  and  sweet; 
And  you  smile  in  the  knowledge  that  sowing  or 
reaping, 

Happily  under  or  over  the  blue; 
Proud  of  naught  else — they  are  proud  to  be  keeping 

Here,  or  in  heaven,  their  worship  of  you. 

Swift  as  a  thought  through  the  sunshiny  spaces, 

Over  the  mountain  tops  covered  with  snow, 
Over  the  meadows,  with  mists  in  their  faces, 

Into  the  warmth  of  your  bosom  I  go. 
What  to  my  heart  that  on  your  heart  is  beating 

Are  the  great  changes  that  others  may  see, 
But  the  pure  parts  of  a  poem  repeating 

All  your  life's  labor  for  them  and  for  me! 
Toil  in  the  day-time,  and  tears  that  have  written 

In  the  night's  silence  your  pain  and  your  prayer, 
Fear  that  has  faded,  and  blight  that  has  bitten 

Half  the  old  ebon  hue  out  of  your  hair! 


16  FAGOTS. 

Tears  on  your  lashes?    I'll  kiss  them  away,  dear! 

Kiss  the  low  lips  and  the  beautiful  brow, 
Kiss  the  kind  hands  I  have  missed  so,  and  say,  dear! 

Never  to  me  were  you  lovely  as  now. 
And  I  know,  in  the  rhymings  of  fact  or  of  fiction, 

Nothing  is  told  of  so  old  or  so  new, 
Nothing  so  sweet  as  the  Christ  benediction 

Resting  forever  on  mothers  like  you. 
Mothers  content  if  the  seeds  of  their  hoping 

Yield  but  in  others  a  fruitage,  tho'  late; — 
Mothers  who  stand  on  life's  westerly  sloping 

Patient  to  journey  and  patient  to  wait. 

Still  on  your  bosom,  I  seem  to  be  sailing 

Past  the  pale  sunset  away  and  away, 
Swift  as  a  whisper  of  want  or  of  wailing, 

Into  the  splendor  of  infinite  day. 
And — like  a  saint  'mid  the  saints'  defloration — 

Welcomed  of  all  in  the  welcome  Unknown, 
I  see  the  white  soul  of  my  soul's  adoration 

Reap  the  ripe  harvest  of  all  it  has  sown; 
See  the  sheen  and  the  snow  of  its  drapery,  woven 

Of  lilies  whose  leaflets  still  cradle  the  dew, 
And  its  crown  of  full  recompense  tenderly  cloven 

From  the  great  heart  of  Compassion,  for  you. 


Over  the  meadow-land,  moonlight  is  streaming; 

Day  from  the  weary  world  walketh  apart; 
Shadows  enfolded  us  while  I  was  dreaming 

Here  in  my  old  place  over  your  heart, 


FAGOTS.  17 

Here  in  the  calm  I  have  failed  to  discover 

Whether  in  laughter  or  whether  in  tears, 
Hunting  the  happy  world  over  and  over, 

All  the  sweet  length  of  my  womanhood's  years. 
Low  at  your  feet  let  me  say  the  old  prayer  again, 

Lifting  my  passionless  palms  from  your  knee, 
Feeling  your  breath  in  my  tangled-up  hair  again, 

Knowing  "the  angels  are  envying  me." 


i8  FAGOTS. 


TO-DAY  AND  FOREVER. 

i. 
MY  breath  but  touches  the  rose  in  your  palm, 

And  lo!  how  the  light  leaves  scatter, 
Leaving  no  semblance  of  bloom  or  of  balm; 

But  what,  I  pray,  does  it  matter? 
Laugh,  as  they  flutter  away,  my  dear, — 

As  they  flow  with  the  flow  of  the  river! 
We  are  done  with  dead  roses  to-day,  my  dear, 

Done  with  them  to-day  and  forever. 

ii. 
Your  eyes  but  turn  to  the  tress  in  my  palm — 

The  wee  little  tress  so  golden, — 
And  low  I  whisper:  "The  sweetest  calm 

Was  born  of  that  sorrow  olden." 
Sing,  as  it  sinks  to  the  mosses,  my  dear, — 

To  the  mosses  that  border  the  river! 
We  are  done  with  old  losses  and  crosses,  my  dear, 

Done  with  them  to-day  and  forever. 

in. 
Laugh  low!    Sing  softly!     Love  is  alive 

And  awake  where  we  walk  together; 
But  Love  is  fragile,  and  Love  will  thrive 

Best  in  the  sunniest  weather. 
So,  let  the  past  be  the  past,  my  dear; 

Let  it  go,  as  the  shade  on  the  river! 
We  are  done  with  old  sorrows,  at  last,  my  dear, 

Done  with  them  to-day  and  forever. 


FAGOTS.  19 


FATHER  AND  CHILD. 


GRAY-HAIRED  and  brown-haired  they  stood  where 
the  sunrise, 

Wove  of  its  wonder  their  girdle  and  crown, 
He,  with  his  old  heart  and  face  to  his  grainland, 

She  with  her  young  heart  and  face  to  the  town. 

"Good-bye!"  he  whispered — his  voice  sounding, 

somehow, 

As  if  it  climbed  from  a  prison  of  pain, 
To  catch  the  Christ-comfort — "May  our  God  keep 

you 
Strong  for  His  service  in  body  and  brain. 


"  Where  you  are  going  it  may  be  they  need  you 
More  than  I  need  you,  my  own  little  one! 

Harvest  fields  whiten  I  know,  in  the  distance, 
And  workers  are  few,  darling,  under  the  sun. 

"So,  though  my  days  may  be  lone,  shall  I  shirk,  dear, 
The  burden  God  sends  through  this  parting  with 

you  ? 
Nay,  nay!  since  somewhere,  not  here,  there  is  work, 

dear, 
For  your  small  hands  and  your  large  heart  to  do." 


20  FAGOTS. 

Silent  he  grew  then.    She  from  his  bosom 
Slid;  kneeled  on  the  hard  earth;  bowed  her  bright 
head, 

And — "  Never  again  shall  I  kneel  thus  before  you 
This  side  the  Better  Land,  father,"  she  said. 

"  Give  me  your  blessing!  "     Quickly  he  answered — 
Barring  the  brown  of  her  beautiful  hair 

With  his  pale  fingers — "  Bless  you,  my  darling! 
May  you  be  ever  the  great  Father's  care. 

"Stainless  and  white  be  your  garments  of  living; 

Well-done  the  labor  God  gives  you  to  do; 
Sweet  may  your  songs  and  brave  may  your  heart  be, 

In   storm   or   in   sunshine,  the   whole  journey 
through." 

Gray-haired  and   brown-haired  they  parted   that 
morning; 

Never  a  tender  thing  grew  at  their  feet; 
Never  a  happy  thing  troubled  the  silence 

With  a  low  singing  of  anything  sweet. 

Only  God's  heaven  of  comfort  above  them; 

Only  God's  heaven  of  hope  in  their  hearts; 
Only  God's  heaven  of  faith  for  their  armor, 

Saving  and  shielding  from  deathfulest  darts. 

Old  hands  and  young  hands  forever  divided; 

Old  heart  and  young  heart  for  aye  undefiled; 
Singing  the  snows  from  their  burden  of  crosses, 

Calm  to  the  Christ-Land,  go  father  and  child. 


FAGOTS.  21 


LAURA. 

IN  queenly  quiet,  she  standeth  there, 

With  the  morning  sunbeams  o'er  her, 
Fair  and  sweet  as  the  roses  are, 

In  the  sweet  world-ways  before  her, 
To  merriest  music  her  young  life  leaps; 

And,  under  their  hazel  lashes, 
Her  sweet  eyes  hold  in  their  tender  deeps, 

Brighter  than  star-light  flashes. 

I  never  have  touched  with  my  human  lips 

A  thread  of  her  braided  tresses; 
I  never  have  reached  my  finger  tips 

To  a  vine  that  her  hand  caresses; 
But  I  know  she  is  fair  as  the  fair  may  be; 

That  Sorrow— he  kens  not  of  her; 
That  her  life  sings  ever  a-low,  like  the  sea, 

And  that  I  am  forever  her  lover! 

Reaching  for  laurel  and  bay,  I  stand 

Where  the  wild  waves  rise  in  riot, 
And  long  for  a  touch  of  the  maiden's  hand, 

A  dream  in  her  bower's  quiet. 
If  she  loved  me  a  little,  my  songs,  I  think, 

Would  be  sweeter  the  sweet  world  over; 
But  never  the  nectar  of  Hope  I  drink, 

Though  I  am  her  loyalest  lover. 


22  FAGOTS. 


WHAT  SHE  OWNS. 

ONLY  a  little  land  toward  the  sunset — 

A  tract  not  wide  nor  long — 
With  trailing  vines  and  violets  upon  it, 

And  slow  airs  sweet  with  song, 
And  all  the  place  so  canopied  with  quiet 

That,  listening,  you  may  hear, 
To  its  soft  couch  of  grasses  running  riot, 

The  angels  drawing  near. 

No  more  than  this— though  much  perchance  ye 
wonder — 

Hath  she  of  whom  ye  ask; 
No  more,  save  something  the  green  grasses  under, 

With  eyes  that  white  lids  mask, 
And  sweet,  sweet  heart,  for  some  unspoken  reason, 

Never  to  bound  or  break 
In  any  time  or  any  place  or  season, 

For  any  young  love's  sake. 

No  more  than  this— this  side  the  happy  heaven— 

That  she  may  call  her  own, 
Than  this  and  these!  for,  morn  and  noon  and  even, 

Wends  she  her  way  alone 
Across  the  world,  with  pale,  proud  lips  shut  tightly, 

And  eyes  too  sad  to  see 
Along  her  lone  way  quivering  ever  brightly 

The  lights  of  memory. 


FAGOTS.  23 

Empty  around  her  fall  your  words  of  wooing, 

Empty  your  words  of  praise; 
No  love  hath  she  for  any  love's  pursuing, 

No  faith  for  wedded  days; 
No  thought  of  giving,  asking  or  receiving, 

Enters  her  heart  or  head, 
For  all  the  fair  young  buds  of  her  believing 

Lie  in  her  bosom — dead. 

Up  the  high  hillside  leading  to  her  treasure 

Some  one  will  walk  ere  long, 
With  pulses  beating  to  a  sense  of  pleasure 

And  to  a  sense  of  song, 
Plucking  the  blooms  and  treading  down  the  grasses 

Till,  suddenly  astir, 
A  bough  that  bends  with  every  breath  that  passes 

Yields  him  a  glimpse  of  her. 

Her  snowy  cheek  on  snowy  tablet  lying— 

As  'twere  the  mother's  breast — 
Her  lashes,  heavy  with  no  hints  of  crying, 

Over  her  dark  eyes  prest, 
Her  tired  heart,  past  pain  and  past  beseeching, 

Nestling,  as  pure  as  snow, 
Among  the  violets,  as  though  'twere  reaching 

Down  to  the  dead  below; 

Her  poor,  pale  lips  just  parted,  as  for  saying 

Some  words  of  shamelessness; 
Her  poor,  pale  palms  just  folded  as  for  praying 

In  very  blamelessness; 


24  FAGOTS. 

Upon  her  brow  no  trace  of  any  fever, 

Nor  any  life  enthroned; 
Only  a  prayer  that  all  the  world  will  leave  her 

Alone  with  what  she  owned. 


FAGOTS.  25 


OVERHEARD. 

AN  orchard  old  and  gnarly,  and  a  wood 

Stretching  away  behind, 
With  birds  that  in  the  shadows  build  and  brood, 

Sweet'ning  the  summer  wind. 


A  cottage  to  the  southward,  gray  and  old; 

Northward  the  waving  grain, 
With  thirsty  bees  from  blossoms  manifold 

Drinking  the  recent  rain. 

Above,  light  clouds  across  the  perfect  blue 

Of  skies  serene  and  sweet; 
Below,  a  well-worn  winding  path  where  true 

And  happy  lovers  meet. 


Two  faces  where  a  grape  vine  bendeth  low 

Over  a  breadth  of  balm; 
Two  voices  with  their  quiet  ebb  and  flow; 

Two  hands  turned  palm  to  palm. 

I  tell  not  what  I  chance  to  overhear, 

Nor  to  the  night  nor  day; 
I  only  say:  "  God  bless  and  keep  you,  dear! 

Then  turn,  and  go  my  way. 


26  FAGOTS. 

They  age  so  soon!  so  soon  forget  their  play, 

These  little  ones  of  ours! 
To-day  betrothed — and  only  yesterday 

Were  babes  among  the  flowers. 

But  if,  forevermore  they  walk,  with  Love, 
The  ways  made  smooth  or  rough, 

Facing  up  fair  the  one  white  gate  above, 
Perhaps  it  is  enough. 


FAGOTS.  27 


UNCONFESSED. 


ACROSS  the  fields  of  summer  bloom 

A  wind  went,  slow  and  sweet, 
To  lay  his  burden  of  perfume 

Low  at  my  lady's  feet. 
The  brooklet  murmured,  "  Stay,  my  dear!  " 

The  white  rose  whispered  "  Wait!  " 
And  the  red  rose  hinted,  "  I  am  here, 

Close  to  the  garden  gate! " 

ii. 

But  on  and  away  the  wild  wind  went, 

Humming  a  love-song  old, 
Till  he  found  my  lady,  and  died  content, 

Kissing  her  locks  of  gold. 
The  brooklet's  murmur  may  reach  her  ear, 

The  white  rose  climb  to  her  breast, 
And  the  red  rose  follow!  but  I  stay  here, 

With  my  one  love  unconfessed. 


28  FAGOTS. 


ACROSS  THE  YEARS. 

SWEETHEART,  do  you  remember  how, 

Half  hidden  in  the  bloomy  heather, 
We  watched  a  workman  at  his  plough, 

One  idle  summer  day  together  ? 
One  idle,  balmy,  dreamful  day, 

Not  over-full  of  song  or  splendor, 
But  rare  with  sweets  of  new-mown  hay, 

And  rare  with  music  soft  and  tender. 

We  were  but  children — you  and  I — 

With  childhood's  trust  and  chilhood's  hoping, 
Tinting  with  crimson  all  the  sky 

O'er  all  our  future's  upward  sloping. 
If  cold  and  care  were  anywhere, 

Or  anywhere  the  dark  of  sorrow, 
We  thought  not,  knew  not,  dreaming  there 

Of  but  the  day  and  but  the  morrow. 

We  listened  to  the  song  of  birds, 

Ourselves  as  softly,  lightly  singing, 
Yet  troubling  not  with  sound  of  words 

The  silence  where  perfumes  were  swinging. 
Enough  for  us  that  we  could  feel 

Our  pulses  to  the  Day's  pulse  beating, 
And  know  that  for  divinest  weal 

His  spirit  and  our  own  were  meeting. 


FAGOTS.  29 

I  know  not  why — O,  sweetheart  mine! 

But  that  dear  day  my  heart  is  haunting 
What  time  I  watch  the  lessening  line 

Of  ships  that  sail  o'er  seas  enchanting. 
I  lean  across  the  years,  across 

Unlevel  lengths  of  sun  and  shadow, 
Hiding  my  kisses  in  the  moss 

That  edges  all  the  old-home  meadow. 

I  wrap  the  red  rose  in  my  hair; 

I  rock  the  red  rose  on  my  bosom, 
But  can  not  find  you  anywhere 

On  seas  of  space  or  beds  of  blossom. 
I  reach  the  sunshine  and  the  dew, 

I  hear  the  nested  bluebird  calling, 
And  yet  I  know  not  if  with  you 

The  sunshine  or  the  rain  is  falling. 

So  be  it.    All  the  world  is  sweet, 

And  haply  you  are  somewhere  in  it; 
No  shadow  of  regret  shall  meet 

The  sunshine  of  a  single  minute. 
Summer  is  with  me.     Calm  on  calm 

Is  lying  in  my  heart  and  over, 
The  while  I  sit  here — palm  on  palm — 

With  all  the  laughing  land  my  lover. 


30  FAGOTS. 


IF  YOU  KNOW. 

IF  you  know  where  the  tenderest  breezes 

Tarry  from  morning  till  night, 
With  singing  as  sweet  as  the  sea's  is — 

Wanton  and  wild  with  delight — 
Then  you  know  where  the  face  of  my  lover 

Beams  with  a  beauty  divine; 
And  the  heart  of  your  heart  hath,  moreover, 

Part  of  the  secret  of  mine. 

If  you  know  where  the  blossom  uncloses, 

That  floodeth  the  soft-swelling  sod 
With  fragrance  as  rare  as  the  roses 

That  brighten  the  bosom  of  God, 
Then  you  know  where  the  feet  of  my  lover 

Pulse  with  a  passion  divine; 
And  the  heart  of  your  heart  hath,  moreover, 

Part  of  the  secret  of  mine. 

If  you  know  where  the  robin  no  longer 

Remembers  the  nest  on  the  hill, 
Where  she  tarries — grown  suddenly  stronger- 

To  catch  a  new  chorus  and  trill, 
Then  you  know  where  the  voice  of  my  lover 

Rises  in  rapture  divine; 
And  the  heart  of  your  heart  hath,  moreover, 

Part  of  the  secret  of  mine. 


FAGOTS.  31 

If  you  know  where  I  sit  with  my  fingers 

Tangled  up  fair  with  the  moon's, 
Keeping  the  twilight  that  lingers 

Tender  with  touches  of  tunes, 
Then  you  know  where  the  heart  of  my  lover 

Is,  in  this  moment  divine; 
And  the  heart  of  your  heart  hath,  moreover, 

All  the  sweet  secret  of  mine! 


32  FAGOTS. 


TWO  HOURS. 


A  STORMY  sea  and  a  stormy  sky, 
Winds  a-shudder  and  ships  ashore; 

And  one  alone  where  the  waves  are  high, 
With  a  broken  boat  and  a  broken  oar. 

A  swift  step  ringing  among  the  rocks; 

A  quick  cry  crossing  the  angry  seas; 
A  lull  in  the  terrible  thunder  shocks, 

And  wild  winds  laden  with  prayers  like  these: 

"  Turn  to  me,  turn  to  me!    What  do  you  there 
Where  Death  is  hidden,  my  love,  my  sweet  ? 

Here  are  my  lips  for  your  nut-brown  hair, 
Here  is  my  heart  for  your  snow-white  feet. 

"God,  God! — if  anywhere  God  may  be — 
When  ships  are  sinking  and  true  hearts  break, 

Give,  I  pray  Thee,  give  back  to  me 
My  love,  my  love,  for  Thine  own  love's  sake!  " 

ii. 

A  quiet  sea  and  a  quiet  sky; 

Winds  a-whisper  and  ships  a-sail, 
And  two  together  with  no  one  nigh 

To  hush  the  telling  of  love's  old  tale. 


FAGOTS.  33 

Bird-songs  echoing  far  and  near; 

A  whir  of  wings  and  a  buzz  of  bees; 
Blue  eyes  bent  to  the  waters  clear 

And  seraphine  smiling  at  words  like  these: 

"  Darling— darling!    This  is  the  place 
And  this  is  the  hour  you  came  to  me, 

With  your  snow-white  heart  and  snow-white  face, 
Safe  from  my  rival,  the  Blue-beard  sea. 

"  Say  you  are  glad,  dear."    Did  she  reply? 

Over  his  bosom  her  bright  hair  fell; 
But  the  birds  and  the  blue  waves  know,  not  I, 

Whatever  her  sweet  lips  dared  to  tell. 


34  FAGOTS. 


HER  LOVER. 

SINGING,  she  follows  the  winds  out  West, 

When  the  day  fades  fragrant  and  fair, 
And  haply  she  finds  him  taking  his  rest, 
As  of  old,  in  the  chintz-covered  chair. 
Her  ever-new  lover — 
Her  ever-true  lover — 
Her  brightest,  her  bravest,  her  best! 
And  go  the  world  over, 
She'll  never  discover 
A  lover  like  him  in  the  West! 

Softly  she  glides  to  him;  lifts  from  his  breast 

The  paper,  a  score  of  times  read, 
And  the  silver-bowed  spectacles,  loose  on  his  vest, 
Laying  her  head  there  instead. 

For  he  is  her  lover — 

Her  ever-new  lover — 
Her  brightest,  her  bravest,  her  best! 

And  go  the  world  over, 

She'll  never  discover 
A  lover  like  him  in  the  West! 

"  My  father!  "  she  falters;  her  fair  finger-tips 

A-sail  on  his  beard's  silver  stream; 
And  all  the  lost  rubies  return  to  her  lips 

As  he  answers,  "  My  child!  "  in  his  dream. 


FAGOTS.  35 

Oh,  he  is  her  lover— 

Her  ever-true  lover — 
Her  brightest,  her  bravest,  her  best! 

And  go  the  world  over, 

She'll  never  discover 
A  lover  like  him  in  the  West! 

"  Dream  on,  dear, "  she  whispers;  "for  I,  too,  dream, 

In  the  twilight,  down  here  by  the  sea; 
And  it's  better,  I  ween,  than  to  walk  in  the  gleam 
And  the  glitter  that  waiteth  for  me! 

For  you  are  my  lover — 

My  tender,  true  lover — 
My  brightest,  my  bravest,  my  best! 

And  go  the  world  over, 

There's  none  can  discover 
A  lover  like  mine  in  the  West!  " 


36  FAGOTS. 


BARBARA. 

SHE  sits  in  the  twilight,  busily  knitting, 

The  kitchen  behind  her  is  dingy  and  old, 
And  up  where  the  day-blind  bats  are  flitting, 

You'll  find  the  rafters  covered  with  mold. 
But  little  of  this  is  Barbara  thinking; 

Her  life  has  folded  its  dreariness  up, 
And  laid  it  away  out  of  sight.     She  is  drinking 

Now  from  an  old-time  memory  cup. 

She  is  going,  hand-in-hand,  with  her  lover — 

As  true  a  lover  as  ever  was  born — 
Up  through  a  meadow  of  milk-white  clover, 

Edging  a  valley  of  tasseling  corn. 
The  birds  pipe  low,  and  the  winds  pipe  lower; 

The  bees  are  busy  among  the  blooms, 
And  the  feet  of  the  brook  go  slower  and  slower 

On  through  the  heart  of  the  gathering  glooms. 

And  they  love  each  other  !    The  world  before  them 

Lengthens  away  like  a  flowery  lea, 
Sweeter  to  them  than  the  heaven  that's  o'er  them, 

Fairer  than  ever  that  heaven  may  be. 
They  love  each  other  !    They  walk  together  ! 

And  what  is  there  more  of  heaven,  I  pray, 
For  those  in  the  evermore  summery  weather, 

If  Love  would  linger,  or  Time  would  stay  ? 


FAGOTS.  37 

But  Time  stays  never  for  call  or  crying, 

And  Barbara  follows  its  quick  tides  on— 
On  and  away  where  the  rocks  are  lying 

That  wreck  and  ruin  at  dark  or  dawn; 
And  she  kneels  again,  with  her  long  hair  over 

The  bosom  where  never  a  pulse-beat  is, 
Her  hand  on  the  dead-white  hand  of  her  lover, 

Her  lips  as  numb  and  as  dumb  as  his. 

Oh,  Barbara!  Barbara!     Come  back  quickly, 

While  you  have  life,  from  that  memory- way; 
For  ghosts  of  the  old  time  glide  there  thickly, 

With  smiles  that  stifle  and  swords  that  slay. 
Come  back,  and  dream  of  a  day-dawn  breaking 

Over  some  beautiful  land,  somewhere, 
Where  your  feet  will  wander  ere  long,  forsaking 

The  shadowy  shores  of  the  world  of  care. 

Barbara!  Barbara!    Never  she  answers; 

Her  hands  lie,  listlessly  crossed,  in  her  lap, 
And  the  wind — the  daintiest,  dearest  of  dancers — 

Comes  from  his  revel  and  kisses  her  cap, 
Dropping  down  tenderly  into  her  bosom, 

Where  a  heart  lieth  as  heavy  as  lead, 
Odors  of  white  clover,  leaflet  and  blossom — 

Barbara— Barbara  Allen— is  dead! 


38  FAGOTS. 


"IN  THE  OLD  LIKENESS." 

DOUGLASS,  my  Douglass,  O  hear  how  I  cry  to  you, 

Facing  your  land  of  the  lupine  and  palm! 
Hear  how  I  cry  to  you,  longing  to  fly  to  you 

From  the  cold  heart  of  this  comfortless  calm. 
Call  me,  I  pray,  from  the  reeds  where  the  robin, 

Swinging  and  singing  alone  to  his  mate, 
Stirs  my  slow  pulse  to  a  passionate  sobbing 
For  the  home-lilies  that  grow  by  the  gate. 
Oh!  at  the  gate,  love; 
Call,  for  I  wait,  love; 
Call,  and  I  answer  at  breaking  of  day; 
Swift  to  your  bosom, 
O'er  hillside  and  blossom, 
Breeze-like  and  bird-like,  awake  and  away. 

Douglass,  my  Douglass,  O  hear  how  I  cry  to  you! 

Leave  me  no  longer  so  lorn  and  so  lone; 
Call  me  your  darling,  and  say  I  may  fly  to  you, 
Never  to  leave  you,  O  Douglass,  mine  own! 
Oh!  if  you  heard  the  winds  carry  my  sobbing 

Over  the  mountain  and  over  the  plain! 
Oh!  if  you  heard  my  heart  heavily  throbbing, 
Under  its  burden  of  passion  and  pain! 
Now,  at  the  gate,  love; 
Call,  for  I  wait,  love; 
Call,  and  I  answer  at  breaking  of  day; 
Swift  to  your  bosom, 
O'er  hillside  and  blossom, 
Breeze-like  and  bird-like,  awake  and  away. 


FAGOTS.  39 


COME  WITH  THE  SPRING  WINDS 
AND  BLOSSOMS. 

COME  with  the  Spring  winds  and  blossoms,  my 
Violet! 

Starry-eyed  Violet!  tender  and  sweet! 
Come  with  the  perfume  of  buds  through  the  sunset; 

Come  with  the  dews  on  your  rose-tinted  feet. 

Lean  from  the  heart  of  the  calm,  little  Blossom, 
As  a  star  leans  from  the  mystical  blue 

To  the  black  of  a  tempest,  and  over  my  bosom 
Drop  the  fine  gold  of  your  tresses  anew. 

Come!    On  my  rose-vines  the  sunset  is  lingering, 
Lighting  the  green  leaf,  and  lighting  the  gray; 

And  the  fair  Spirit  of  Silence  is  fingering 
All  the  white  keys  of  the  jubilant  Day. 

Yet,  can  I  lift  for  the  Night's  tender  kisses, 
Lips  that  are  red  with  the  rare  wine  of  song, 

And  brows  that  are  radiant,  remembering  blisses 
That  throbbed  through  the  heart  of  Aprils  agone  ? 

Remembering  all  your  low  laughter,  and  missing 
The  tenderest  notes  from  my  life's  broken  psalm? 

Oh,  Blossom!  shine  sweet  through  the  night  of  my 

wishing, 
And  lean  to  my  heart  from  the  heart  of  the  calm. 


40  FAGOTS. 

She  comes  with  the  Spring  winds  and  blossoms,  the 
Violet, 

Lost  from  the  green  of  a  morning  ago, 
And  held,  like  a  lily,  through  all  the  white  sunsets, 

Sleepily,  dreamily,  under  the  snow. 

She  comes  from  the  soul  of  the  silence,  my  Blossom 
My  starry-eyed  Violet,  tender  and  sweet! 

But  Paradise-buds  are  too  fair  on  her  bosom — 
The  Paradise-dews  are  too  bright  on  her  feet. 

Too  fair  and  too  bright  for  a  gaze  that  is  human! 

It  is  not  for  me — the  sweet  dawn  of  the  day, 
And  not  for  my  hands — the  weak  hands  of  a  woman, 

To  hold  in  their  clasping,  an  angel  astray. 

Still,  still  do  I  lift  for  the  night's  tender  kisses, 
Lips  that  are  red  with  the  nectar  of  song, 

And  brows  that  are  radiant,  remembering  blisses 
Throbbed  through  the  heart  of  the  Aprils  agone. 

And  smiling  to  think  how  the  dainty-faced  Violet, 
Borne  from  the  clay  on  a  cherubic  wing, 

Has  oped  her  blue  eyes  far  beyond  the  white  sunset, 
And  blossoms  anew  in  the  Paradise-Spring. 


FAGOTS.  41 


NOTHING  TO  US. 

i. 
THE  day  is  dark  and  the  day  is  cold, 

Sing,  my  bonnie  bird,  sing! 
Sing  loud  and  long,  while  into  the  wold 
The  sea  wind  saileth  so  swift  and  bold, 
For  it's  nothing  to  us — to  you  and  to  me — 
That  the  day  is  dark  as  a  day  may  be, 

And  the  wind  but  a  biting  thing. 

II. 
You  know  when  the  sun  shines  ?— so  do  I ! 

Were  my  eyes  blindfolded  fast, 
And  I  alone  in  the  clamor  and  cry 
Of  a  terrible  storm  that  shook  the  sky 
And  drowned  the  lilies — and  half-drowned  me, — 
I  should  know— for  my  heart  and  my  soul  would 

see — 
When  the  sun  shone  through  at  last. 

in. 
Come  to  my  bosom,  bonnie  bright  bird! 

I  love  you — and  he  loves  me! 
His  story— the  truest  that  ever  was  heard — 
I  will  tell  you,  my  beautiful,  word  for  word; 
Tell  it  softly  and  oftly,  and  often  again, 
Till  its  meaning  is  plain  to  your  heart  and  your 

brain, 
And  you  warble  it  back  in  glee. 


42  FAGOTS. 

IV. 

The  day  is  dark  and  the  day  is  cold, 

But  merrily,  O,  we'll  sing! 
Sing  loud  and  long  while  into  the  wold 
The  sea  wind  saileth  so  swift  and  bold. 
For  it's  nothing  to  us — to  you  and  me— 
That  the  day  is  dark  as  a  day  may  be, 
And  the  wind  but  a  biting  thing. 


FAGOTS. 


DREAM  BY  THE  SEA. 

I. 

PERHAPS  it  was  only  a  dream 

Of  something  too  sweet  to  be, 
But  I  saw  you  with  eyes  a-gleam 
Like  the  myriad  eyes  of  the  sea. 

And  you  looked  not  old, 

And  you  looked  not  cold, 
Your  step  it  was  firm  and  free; 

And  the  rose  in  your  hand 

Was  queen  of  the  land 
Of  roses  a-bloom  for  me. 

ii. 
Surely  I  slept  and  dreamed! 

For  you  were  a-nigh,  a-nigh, 
And  I  knew  you  all  that  you  seemed 
What  time  you  were  living  a  lie. 
And  the  rose  in  my  hair, 
You  had  fastened  it  there; 
And  my  pulses  were  happy  and  high; 
For  love  it  was  new, 
And  love  it  was  true. 
And  heaven  was  under  the  sky. 

in. 
There  were  words  from  the  world  apart; 

There  was  laughter  of  wind  and  wave; 
Till  something  struck  at  my  heart, 

From  the  heart  of  the  rose  you  gave. 


43 


44  FAGOTS. 

And  lo!  for  a  wonder, 

The  wild  storm  and  thunder, 
And  moaning  from  many  a  grave; 

And  the  end  of  the  dream! 

Then  a  new  day's  gleam, 
And  spirits  that  shield  and  save. 


IV. 


And  this  is  the  song  for  me: 

Oh!  sweet  as  a  young  babe's  breath 
Is  the  beautiful,  beautiful  sea; 
But  he  wooeth  a-down  to  death, 

And  tenderness  lies 

In  his  myriad  eyes 
But  treachery  lurks  beneath; 

And  an  arrowy  dart 

For  the  delicate  heart, 
Forever  the  sweet  sea  hath. 


v. 


A  rose  is  a  coveted  thing, 

It  is  silken  and  soft  and  warm, 
It  is  fanned  by  the  humming-bird's  wing, 
It  is  fondled  by  sun  and  storm. 

We  pluck  it  in  blossom, 

And  wear  on  the  bosom 
Till,  suddenly,  faint  with  alarm, 

We  snatch  from  our  laces 

The  gleam  of  its  graces, 
And  shake  from  its  petals  the  worm. 


FAGOTS.  45 

VI. 

True  love  is  the  loveliest  thing 

That  ever  a  life  may  know; 
'Tis  a  child  of  the  Paradise  spring 
Let  loose  in  the  valleys  below. 
Embrace  him  and  bind  him 
If  once  you  but  find  him 
And  sing  in  the  sun  and  the  snow; 
And  smile  on  him  purely 
And  journey  securely, 
Forever,  wherever,  you  go. 


FAGOTS. 


YOU  AND  I  KNOW. 


0  BLITHE  little  robbin,  a-calling  to  me 

From  your  uppermost  perch  in  my  palmetto-tree: 
Is  there  anything  sweeter,  in  all  the  sweet  world, 
Than  the  quiet  where  your  wings  and  my  wings  are 
furled  ? 

ii. 

1  lean  to  my  lilies,  yet  listen  to  you, 

With  face  in  the  sunshine,  with  feet  in  the  dew; 
And  I  answer  you  back  again,  singing,  "  O  ho! 
Who  cometh  cheerily? — You  and  I  know." 

in. 

And  what  does  it  matter  to  you  or  to  me 
That  sorrow  is  somewhere  on  shoreland  or  sea  ? 
We  two  are  as  safe  as  the  stars  are,  my  bird, 
And  the  whisper  of  want  is  a  whisper  unheard. 

IV. 

But  somewhere  the  dark  is!  and  somewhere  the 

snows 

Are  guarding  the  gravelets  of  lily  and  rose! 
No  robin  sings  there;  and  the  winds  are  as  wild 
As  the  destiny  waiting  for  Nobody's  child. 


FAGOTS.  47 


v. 


Yet  sing,  O  my  pretty  one!    Sing  in  the  calm 
That  holdeth  and  foldeth  your  perch  in  the  palm! 
Let  the  notes  flutter  high,  let  the  notes  flutter  low — 
For  never  our  one  world  is  under  the  snow. 


VI. 


Honey-bees  hide  in  its  blossoming  clover, 
Shaking  the  dainty  dews  under  and  over; 
Murmuring  something  too  sweet  for  a  name — 
Summer  and  Winter  time  ever  the  same. 


VII. 


Look — O  my  darling!    Look  over  the  hill, 
And  see  if  one  crosseth  the  bridge  by  the  mill; 
For  the  rollicking  breezes  are  suddenly  grown 
Of  tenderer  touch  and  of  tenderer  tone; 


VIII. 


And  I  think — ah,  no  matter!    Sing,  little  bird, 
A  melody  sweeter  than  ever  was  heard; 
And  /'// answer  merrily,  shouting,  "O  ho! 
Who  cometh  cheerily? — You  and  I  know." 


48  FAGOTS. 


MY  LITTLE  LOVE. 

i. 
MY  little  love,  asleep  so  far,  so  far 

Beyond  the  hills  I  can  not  cross  nor  climb, 
Forgetting  where  the  bees  and  wild  birds  are, 

And  minding  not  the  running  river's  rhyme — 
I  pray  you,  in  the  silences  grown  sweet 

And  full  of  heaven — since  having  you  to  hold, — 
Dream  that  the  wind  hath  kisses  for  your  feet, 

Blown  from  my  heart  with  blessings  manifold. 

ii. 
The  palms  are  proud  above  me!  and  I  go, 

Singing,  across  the  laughter-loving  land, 
Yet  saying,  sometimes,  with  my  voice  dropped  low: 

"If  only  she  could  wake  and  understand  !  " 
It  may  be  that  my  fancy  runneth  riot, 

Watching  the  wee  birds  peering  from  the  nest; 
But  O,  it  seemeth  often  in  the  quiet 

Your  light  breath  rocks  the  roses  on  my  breast. 

in. 
And  so  I  say:     "  My  love,  awake  so  far 

Beyond  the  skies  that  yet  I  may  not  climb, 
I  think  you  know  where  all  my  treasures  are; 

I  think  you  hold  the  meaning  of  my  rhyme. 
I  think  you  stand,  this  moment,  warm  and  sweet, 

And  reaching  dimpled  fingers  as  of  old, 
To  catch  the  kisses  for  your  face  and  feet, 

Blown  from  my  heart  with  blessings  manifold." 


FAGOTS.  49 

IV. 

And  so  I  sing  with  brooks,  and  birds,  and  bees, 

Under  the  palms  and  where  the  pampa  grows; 
Choosing  my  many  friends  from  them  and  these 

And  from  wild  winds  that  seek  Sierra's  snows. 
And  so  I  wear  the  raiment  of  delight; 

And  so  I  walk  with  glad,  unfaltering  feet; 
And  so  I  wait,  till,  past  the  day  and  night, 

Finding  my  love,  I  find  my  life  complete. 


50  FAGOTS. 


PAUPERS. 

Two  little  hands  and  two  little  feet 

That  never  will  weary  again; 
Two  soft  eyes  shut  under  lashes  sweet — 

God  !  can  I  bear  this  pain  ? 
Can  I  live  with  this  pitiless  sorrow 

Tearing  my  heart  and  head? 
Can  I  pray  when  the  pitiless  morrow 

Leaves  me  not  even  my  dead  ? 

They  are  merry  there,  where  the  bright  lights  are- 
Merry  as  merry  can  be. 

What  do  they  care  that  the  youngling's  hair, 
Fluttering  over  my  knee, 

Will  never  be  rumpled  and  never  be  kissed 
By  the  warm  young  mouth  of  Spring — 

That  her  cry  on  the  street  will  never  be  missed, 
Or  the  song  that  she  used  to  sing  ? 

What  do  they  care  for  a  pauper  ?    Hark  ! 

They  are  playing  a  favorite  air; 
And  in  where  the  warmth  is,  in  from  the  dark 

There  is  bread  enough  and  to  spare. 
One  little  crumb  from  their  burdened  board, 

One  drop  of  their  wasted  wine, 
Had  saved  my  child  !     Oh,  Lord  !  oh,  Lord  ! 

Art  lost  in  that  heaven  of  Thine? 


FAGOTS.  51 

The  night  grows  deeper.    The  swift  snows  beat 

My  bosom  with  dead- white  hands; 
But,  dull  to  their  fury,  I  turn  my  feet 

To  the  spot  where  the  old  home  stands. 
How  happy  it  is  !    And  the  daises  grow 

Athirst  for  my  lips'  light  touch, 
Just  as  they  did  in  the  long  ago — 

Ah,  child  !  we  have  borne  so  much  ! 

But  never  mind  now.     It  is  all,  all  past — 

The  hunger,  the  cold,  the  pain — 
And  the  voice  of  my  mother  I  hear  at  last 

A-singing  an  old  refrain. 
How  happy  it  is  !     Lie  close,  my  child; 

For,  sheltered,  and  warm,  and  bright — 
Forgetting  the  world  that  is  wide  and  wild — 

I  think  we  shall  sleep  to-night ! 


52  FAGOTS. 


WITH  YOU. 


AN  hour  of  hours  and  a  time  for  dreaming, 

The  slow  sun  sinking  in  a  sea  of  mist; 
God's  grace  our  own,  and  all  his  heaven  seeming 

To  near  us  through  the  fading  amethyst. 
My  hand  in  yours,  I  hear  your  words  low  spoken; 

"He  leadeth  you  the  way  your  darling  went  " 
And  know  them  true  by  many  a  tender  token, 

Trying  for  her  sweet  sake,  to  be  content. 


And  yet,  somehow,  the  dead  leaves  drifting  round 
us, 

The  whispers  in  the  hemlock  and  the  fir, 
The  very  calm  and  quiet  that  have  found  us, 

Seem  but  to  make  me  hungrier  for  her. 
Across  the  mountains  sleep  is  sweet  upon  her; 

I  would  not  loose  his  strong  hold  if  I  might; 
But  oh,  my  friend,  my  friend,  had  death  not  won 
her, 

How  changed  to  me  were  all  the  world  to-night. 


If  as  in  days  I  can  not  make  seem  olden, 

Facing  the  dark,  I  faced  my  darling,  too, 

Feeling  the  fairness  of  her  locks  so  golden, 
Feeling  the  fullness  of  her  love  so  true, 


FAGOTS.  53 

A  something  tenderer  I  could  discover 
In  all  the  touches  of  the  tender  wind; 

A  something  sweeter  where  my  sweet  thoughts 

hover, 
A  something  dearer  in  the  dream  behind. 

I  try  to  think  what  the  long  years  have  brought  her, 

The  years  since  she  was  made  so  all-divine, 
What  happy  songs  the  angels  may  have  taught  her, 

To  sing  at  morn  and  eve,  instead  of  mine. 
I  try  to  think  how  she  will  fly  to  meet  me 

In  some  glad  hour  that  may  not  be  afar, 
And  with  what  words  of  welcome  she  will  greet  me 

Beyond  the  valley  where  the  shadows  are. 

But  thought  so  burdens!  and  the  mother  in  me 

Cries  for  the  clinging  of  the  warm  young  mouth; 
The  voice's  call  that  from  the  grave  could  win  me, 

The  slow  breath,  sweeter  than  our  own  sweet 

South ; 
The  nut-brown  eyes  filled  over-full  of  laughter; 

The  fine,  gold  tresses  treasuring  the  light; 
Oh,  friend  !  how  can  I  wait  for  the  hereafter, 

That  seems,  for  me,  so  far  away  to-night  ? 

Forgive  me!    Tears  are  hot  upon  your  lashes, 

And  pain  is  hiding  in  your  patient  eyes; 
Yet  I  have  brought  you  gold  from  out  the  ashes 

Of  that  one  pure  and  priceless  sacrifice. 
And  heaven  itself  hath  nothing  worth  the  finding 

If  I  shall  miss  therefrom  the  hand  I  hold, 
And  the  calm  presence  that  to-night  is  binding 

My  life  to  earth  as  nothing  could  of  old. 


54  FAGOTS. 


WITH  PANSIES. 

"  'THESE  be  for  thoughts,'  my  gentle  friend," 

She  said,  and  kissed  the  purple  blooms, 
"  For  tenderest  thoughts  where  dream-boughs  bend 

To  fold  thee  in  their  faint  perfumes. 
Let  swing  and  ring  of  marriage  bells, 

Swift  from  the  happy  olden  time, 
Be  sweetest  sound  that  sinks  and  swells 

Where  roses  rock  and  rivers  rhyme. 

"  Roses  of  rest  thy  heart  hath  known, 

Rivers  of  peace  thy  soul  hath  sailed 
Though  many  a  happy  hope  is  flown 

And  many  an  anchorage  has  failed, 
I  give  thee  joy,  O  gentle  friend!  " 

She  said,  and  kissed  each  purple  bloom, 
"  God's  love  go  with  thee  to  the  end, 

And  on  his  bosom  give  thee  room." 


FAGOTS.  55 


WHAT  SHALL  I  SAY? 

WHAT  shall  I  say  to  you  to-night, 

Oh,  friend,  whose  face  I  can  not  see, 
Save  as  I  keep  it  in  the  light 

Of  "  this  lone  lamp  of  memory  "  ? 
What  little  timid,  trembling  word, 

Whose  meaning  sweet  is  still  so  new, 
Shall  I  entrust  to  breeze  or  bird 

To  bear  across  the  night  to  you  ? 

I  catch  from  out  the  shadowy  grass 

A  sound  of  something  glad  and  free, 
And  turning,  think  to  see  you  pass 

Along  the  way  that  winds  to  me 
And,  radiant,  1  reach  my  hand 

To  find  the  fairness  of  your  own; 
But,  ah!  for  silence  hath  the  land 

That  holds  me  in  its  heart  alone. 

Alone,  alone!    Yet  not  alone, 

Since  evermore  one  walks  with  me 
Whose  closely-curtained,  quiet  throne 

Henceforth  within  my  life  shall  be. 
I  may  not  reach  the  reaching  hand, 

I  may  not  hear  the  pulses  true, 
And  yet  along  the  happy  land 

I  walk  for  aye,  my  love,  with  you. 


56  FAGOTS. 

And  so  the  young  bird  o'er  my  head, 

Dreaming,  within  her  downy  nest 
Of  sweetnesses  as  yet  unshed 

Upon  her  little  patient  breast, 
Knows  not  so  dear  a  dream  as  I 

That  lean  with  violet-scented  hair 
And  languid  lips,  that  smile  and  sigh, 

T'ward  the  low  lattice  where  you  are. 

And  so  I  softly  say  to-night, 

O,  friend,  whose  face  I  can  not  see — 
Save  as  I  watched  it  "by  the  light 

Of  this  lone  lamp  of  memory" — 
Say  o'er  and  o'er  each  tender  word 

Born  of  my  love  so  sweetly  new, 
Trusting  some  blessed  breeze  or  bird 

To  bear  them  through  the  night  to  you. 


FAGOTS.  57 


JOHNNY  AND  I. 

WE  were  barefooted  children  together, 

Driving  the  Alderney  cows, 
In  the  'witching  and  wonderful  weather 

Familiar  with  perfumes  and  plows. 
There  was  Bessie,  and  Beauty,  and  Brindle, 

And  Fanny  —  as  fleet  as  a  deer, 
With  eyes  that  would  color  and  kindle 

Whenever  we  children  were  near. 

There  was  Daisy,  the  darling,  and  Whitefoot — 

Watching  each  way  for  the  calf 
Pat  had  murdered  that  morning  —  and  Lightfoot, 

Whose  capers  always  made  us  laugh. 
And  Johnny  and  I,  and  the  seven 

Sleek  milkers  —  the  Alderney  cows  — 
Cared  nothing,  just  then,  for  a  heaven 

That  had  not  its  pastures  and  plows. 

"  I  wish,"  Johnny  said  —  and  a  brittle 

Old  bramble  broke  under  his  feet  — 
"  I  wish  you  would  always  stay  little, 

And  brown  as  a  bird,  and  as  sweet! 
For  you  are  so  good  and  so  jolly, 

You  can  make  me  whatever  you  try, 
And  you  love  me,  to-day,  little  Mollie — " 

"And  I'll  love  you  to-morrow! "  said  I. 


58  FAGOTS. 

"  Ah,  yes;  but  you'll  be  a  fine  lady  " — 

Poor  Johnny  was  thumbing  his  knife  — 
"  And  but  yesterday,  Ichabod  Brady 

Said  something  'bout you  for  a  wife." 
'"Bout  me,  for  a  wife?  "     "And  I  hate  him! ' 

My  bonnie  boy -lover  broke  in. 
"  If  I  weren't  too  little  to  mate  him, 

I'd  flog  him  to  death  for  a  pin." 

11  Now,  Johnny,"  said  I,  with  a  flutter 

Of  heart  that  my  heart  could  not  ken, 
And  not  a  word  more  could  I  utter, 

For  the  rogue  he  was  kissing  me  then; 
And  the  Alderney  cows  — they  were  cropping 

The  grasses  'way  down  by  the  brook, 
Not  human  enough  for  eaves-dropping, 

Nor  ever  once  turning  to  look. 


From  the  pasture  two  children  together 

Are  coming  up  slow  with  the  cows, 
In  the  'witching  and  wonderful  weather, 

Familiar  with  perfumes  and  plows. 
There's  a  Beauty,  a  Bessie,  a  Brindle, 

But  they  are  the  young  of  the  kine, 
Whose  eyes  have  forgotten  to  kindle; 

The  children  are— Johnny's  and  mine. 


FAGOTS.  59 


AT  THE  GATE. 

"TROUBLE  her  not" — I  heard  them  say 

"  With  crying  and  beseeching, 
She  goeth  God's  appointed  way 

To  God's  own  arms  upreaching. 
Let  quiet  compass  all  the  space 

This  side  the  gate  unclosing, 
And  smile  to  see  the  growing  grace 

On  lip  and  brow  reposing." 


And  so  —  the  end  is  come,  for  which 

We  two  have  cried  together 
O  heart  of  mine!  so  poor,  so  rich, 

So  tired  of  changeful  weather; 
And  here  we  part,  who  long  have  been 

The  truest  of  true  lovers, 
Thou  for  the  willows  waving  green, 

And  sleep  where  silence  hovers. 

For  me — I  trust,  yet  can  not  know 

The  Father's  dispensation, 
Perchance  to  penance  I  shall  go, 

Perchance  to  compensation. 
But  thou  shalt  rest!    Above  thy  bed 

The  grasses  shall  be  growing, 
And  roses  nodding,  white  and  red, 

And  poppy-buds  a-blowing. 


60  FAGOTS. 

Good-bye,  my  heart!  I  seem  to  hear 

A  sound  of  bells  a-ringing, 
And  far  away  —  yet  drawing  near, 

A  child's  seraphic  singing. 
Good-bye,  good-bye  —  sweetheart  of  mine! 

Thou  truest  friend  and  lover; 
I  hear  the  call  of  Love  divine 

And  life,  with  thee,  is  over. 


FAGOTS.  61 


MY  GIRL. 

HARK  to  the  wind  that  passes, 

Hailing  the  hills  — "  Heigh-ho!  " 
See  how  the  long  lawn  grasses 

Shine  in  the  sunset  glow! 
The  palm  trees,  stately  and  strong  and  tall, 
Are  guarding  the  gates  of  the  garden  wall, 
While  over  and  under  and  all  about 
The  roses  are  whispering  in  and  out — 
"  Oh,  she  is  near  to  us! 
Oh,  she  is  dear  to  us!  " 

Sighing  with  envy  of  me, 
Dying  with  envy  of  me. 
For  the  maiden  sitting  and  singing  there, 
With  goldenrod  in  her  golden  hair, 
The  maiden  dainty  and  dear  and  fair, 
Is  mine  —  my  girl! 

II. 

Hark  to  the  sea  that  crieth, 

Missing  the  winds  that  creep 
Low  where  my  one  love  lieth, 

Singing  still  in  her  sleep! 
The  moonlight  stealeth  under  the  stars, 
To  brighten  the  blooms  at  her  casement  bars; 
And  something  stirs,  in  an  answering  way, 
The  pulse  of  the  palms  where  I  kneel  and  pray: 


62  FAGOTS. 

"  Let  her  be  near  to  Thee, 
Let  her  be  dear  to  Thee, 

Thou  that  lovest  us  all, 
Thou  that  provest  us  all! 
Be  mine  the  sorrow  for  love's  own  sake; 
Be  mine  the  burden  for  two  to  take; 
Let  my  heart  hunger  and  ache  and  break, 
But  spare  my  girl!  " 

in. 

And,  when  her  dream  is  over 

Under  the  skies'  soft  blue, 
When  never  for  friend  or  lover 

Is  anything  left  to  do; 
When  care  is  quiet  and  souls  are  free 
To  sail  as  a  ship  on  an  unknown  sea; 
To  soar  as  a  bird  or  to  shine  as  a  star, 
Where  Life's  interpreted  mysteries  are, 
O  by  the  mother-love 
Wiser  than  other  love; 

By  the  pain  plead  for  me, 
By  the  blood  shed  for  me, 
Under  the  palm  trees  stately  and  tall, 
Guarding  the  gates  of  the  jasper  wall; 
Where  Love's  own  scepter  is  over  all — 
Give  me  my  girl! 


FAGOTS.  63 


MARGUERITE. 

SHE  made  on  the  upland  a  picture  that  never  an  artist 

could  paint, 
Sandled  with  sheen  of  a  sunset — crowned  with  the 

calm  of  a  saint. 

Her  face  from  the  face  of  her  lover  turned,  touched 

with  a  breath  from  the  sea: 
Her  heart  held  the  words  of  her  lover:     "  The  cup 

is  most  bitter  for  me!  " 

' ' '  The  cup  is  most  bitter  ? '  "  she  echoed.  ' '  I  know- 
it,  O  tenderest  friend; 

And  the  way  stretches  darkly  before  you;  but  you 
will  go  straight  to  the  end,  " 

"  'To  the  end?'  and  what  then?"— all  the  doubt  of 

his  soul  surging  into  his  tone — 
"Missing    you,    though    I  journey    with  angels,  I 

journey  forever  alone!" 

"You'll  not  miss  me,"  she  said  smiling  softly,  her 

eyes  on  the  opal  afar, 
Their  light  burning  steadily,  clearly,  as  once  burned 

the  Bethlehem  star, 

And  all  her  poor,  pitiful  pallor  that  told  its  own 

story  of  strife, 
Flushing  warmly,  as  if  for  an  instant  some  seraph 

had  kissed  it  to  life. 


64  FAGOTS. 

"Dear  friend,  you'll  not  miss  me — since  fetters  were 

fashioned  for  only  the  clay — 
Since  love  is  immortal  as  God  is — since  we  two  are 

wedded  for  aye. 

"You  go  where  the  night  is,  and  with  you  a  sorrow 

more  deathful  than  death; 
But  you  follow  the  white  feet  of  Duty — your  hand 

in  the  white  hand  of  Faith. 

"And  you  will  bear  bravely  the  tempest  of  agonies 

sharper  then  hail, 
Nor  shrink  from  the  sands  of  the  desert — nor  falter 

where  others  would  fail. 

"For  you  are  my  hero,  beloved,  my  king — among 

cowards  of  men — 
And  the  time  is  not  long  to  the  sunrise;  wait,  work 

and  be  brave  until  then." 

"You  walk  with  the  angels,  my  darling — you  echo 

their  music,  "  he  said, 
A  smile  on  his  lips,  such  as  lingers  sometimes  on 

the  lips  of  the  dead. 

And  so,  on  the  upland,  they  parted;  dim  shadows 

stole  into  the  skies; 
Only  the  chill  of  her  fingers  answered  the  prayer  in 

his  eyes. 


FAGOTS.  65 


FOR  LOVE'S  SWEET  SAKE. 

HERE,  where  the  waves  make  answer 
To  every  wind  that  calls, 

Where  the  sea-birds  bide 

When  the  ebbing  tide 
Leaveth  the  weed- wound  walls, 

Where  the  hours  are  fleet 

And  the  hours  are  sweet, 
And  life  like  a  loveful  song, 

He  made  me  a  bower 

Of  fern  and  of  flower, 
And  hid  me  a  whole  day  long. 

O,  but  we  heard  the  waters 
Mocking  the  moveless  ships! 

And  we  saw,  in  a  dream, 

The  glow  and  the  gleam 
Of  myriad,  musical  lips 

That  stirred  in  the  shade, 

The  lily  leaves  made — 
Neither  asleep  nor  awake — 

And  no  one  was  near 

To  harm  or  to  hear 
If  he  kissed  me  for  Love's  sweet  sake. 

So,  he  kissed  me!    Whisper  it  softly — 
Windlets  never  asleep! 

Till  all  the  white  clover 

Hears  over  and  over 
My  secret  too  sweet  to  keep; 


66  FAGOTS. 

Till  all  the  green  grasses 

The  meadow-brook  passes, 
And  all  the  bright  blooms  of  the  brake, 

Are  glad  and  are  gay, 

For  forever  and  aye, 
That  he  kissed  me  for  Love's  sweet  sake. 

This  is  the  bower  he  built  me! 
Dainty  and  dear  it  is, 

With  song  of  the  sea, 

Of  bird  and  of  bee 
Woven  with  song  of  his, 

And  filling  my  breast 

With  infinite  rest 
Whether  I  sleep  or  wake; 

While  my  lips  laugh  low, 

"All,  the  saints  may  know 
He  kissed  me  for  Love's  sweet  sake!  " 


FAGOTS.  67 


A  WISE  WAIF. 

THE  winds  were  sweet  in  the  hawthorn  hedge, 

And  the  lilies  bent  in  a  beautiful  dream 
To  the  reeds  that  swung  in  the  shadowy  edge 

Of  a  gnarled  old  forest's  musical  stream; 
And  everywhere,  everywhere  Love  laughed  low, 

When,  taking  her  brown  hand,    Algernon  said. 
"Kiss  me,  dear  Ethel,  before  I  go; 

For  I'll  love  you  forever,  living  or  dead!" 

Over  the  red  of  the  maiden's  lips 

A  rare  smile  rippled,  then  passed  away, 
As  softly  she  answered:    "Where  go  the  ships, 

You  go,  my  friend,  for  a  year  and  a  day. 
And  I— that  thrill  at  the  lightest  sound 

O'  your  step  on  the  sward,  or  your  voice  on  the 

wind, 
That  love  and  live  for  you — will  not  be  bound 

By  sign  or  by  token,  and  will  not  bind. 

"For  how  can  I  know,  though  we  smile  or  sigh, 

That  our  love  is  true,  since  our  love  is  new  ? 
Since  simply  a  waif  o'  the  woods  am  I, 

Since  surely  a  man  of  the  world  are  you  ? 
But  if,  till  the  hedge  is  in  blossom  again, 

Your  heart  in  its  homage  remains  the  same, 
Come  to  me!  I'll  wait  i'  the  sun  or  the  rain; 

And  I'll  give  you  a  kiss  when  you  give  me  your 
name.  " 


68  FAGOTS. 

The  year  and  the  day  went  tardily  by; 

The  birds  were  again  in  the  hawthorn  hedge, 
And  the  lilies  bent,  with  never  a  sigh, 

To  the  reeds  that  rocked  in  the  brooklet's  edge; 
For,  fair  in  the  flush  of  a  roseate  day, 

Loving — with  never  a  chance  for  blame — 
Ethel  and  Algernon  passed  that  way, 

And  he  claimed  her  kiss,  for  she  bore  his  name. 


FAGOTS. 


DOWERED. 


A  WIND  came  this  morning  from  over  the  river 

And  brought  me  a  legion  of  things 
To  be  hidden  and  hidden,  forever  and  ever, 

Away  under  memory's  wings. 
And  I — with  my  tresses  blown  fuller  of  sweetness 

Than  ever  the  lips  of  the  sea, 
Leaned  over  my  casement  in  rapture's  complete 
ness, 

To  take  what  he  gave  unto  me. 


ii. 


There  were  whispers  of  waters    and    little   wild 

snatches 

Of  songs  sung  alow  to  a  shore, 
Where,  dreaming  and  dreaming,   a  young  lover 

watches 

For  one  who  returns  nevermore. 
There  were  promises  broken    and  fragments  of 

speeches 

And  something  that  sounded  like  tears; 
A-dripping  and  dripping  down  over  the  beeches 
That  keep  all  the  secrets  of  years. 


70  FAGOTS. 

in. 
And  yet,  oh,  and  yet,  as  I  listened  and  listened, 

I  caught  the  light  laughter  of  leaves 
That  swung  in  the  sunshine,  that  glistened  and  glis 
tened 

O'er  swallows  asleep  in  the  eaves; 
The  eaves  of  a  cottage  where,  climbing  and  climb 
ing, 

The  jessamine  bloomed  as  of  old, 
When  I  sat  in  its  shadow  a-rhyming  and  rhyming 
About  the  young  butter-cups'  gold. 

IV. 

And  over  and  over  the  meadows  of  clover 
And  hill-tops  so  green  and  so  grand, 

I  wandered  again  with  my  lover,  my  lover, 
The  bonniest  lad  in  the  land, 

Forgetting  the  fire,  the  famine,  the  fever, 
Forgetting  the  torture  of  tears — 

"  Give  love,  and  love  only,  forever  and  ever!  " 
I  cried  to  the  manifold  years, 
v. 

To  the  manifold  years  that  were  leaning  unto  us 
From  arches  of  splendor  afar, 

And  happily,  happily,  seeking  to  woo  us 
Where  never  the  red  roses  are. 

Sweet  was  the  dreaming — no  matter  what  came  of 

it- 
Sweet  was  the  tasseling  corn; 

Sweet  was  the — something! — no  matter  the  name 

of  it- 
Heard  by  the  merry  May  morn. 


FAGOTS.  71 

VI. 

Ah!  softly  and  softly,  down  over  the  river, 

Droop  the  dark  shadows  to-night! 
But  all  the  wild  willows  they  shiver  and  shiver 

As  if  they  were  stricken  of  fright! 
And  I — with  my  tresses  blown  fuller  of  sadness 

Than  ever  the  lips  of  the  sea — 
Lean  over  my  casement  to  phantoms  of  gladness, 

And  take  what  they  give  unto  me. 


72  FAGOTS. 


BEFORE  THE  BALL. 

I  AM  here  in  the  purple,  black  twilight; 

My  room  as  you  left  it  remains; 
The  pictures,  the  fountain,  the  flowers; 

The  gas  is  unlighted;  it  rains; 
And  the  wind  thro'  my  half-open  shutters 

Cries  lonesome  and  low  to  me,  dear, 
As  I  cry  to  you  through  the  darkness. 

Listen,  my  love!    Do  you  hear  ? 

Do  you  sit  as  I  sit,  with  a  wonder 

Growing  up  rank  in  your  heart — 
A  tare  in  the  grain  that  is  tasseled — 

Why  we  too  are  praying  apart  ? 
Do  you  lean  as  I  lean,  at  this  moment 

From  darkness  to  darkness,  and  say, 
"  O  spirit  of  Infinite  Goodness 

Be  good  to  my  darling,  I  pray! " 

Ah,  well!    Over  there  in  the  corner 

I  can  see  by  the  fire's  faint  light, 
The  robe  of  most  delicate  amber 

That  I  am  to  dance  in  to-night. 
There's  garniture  gorgeous — a  snow-shine 

Of  pearls  and  of  point  applique"; 
And  yet,  O  I'm  wild  for  the  daises 

That  darken  the  hills  far  away! 


FAGOTS.  73 

I  want  the  light  lips  of  the  lilies 

On  my  lips  that  quiver  and  ache, 
All  the  white  bright  lips  of  the  lilies 

That  border  our  own  happy  lake. 
And  I  want  you,  O  darling  of  darlings! 

O,  one  world  of  all  worlds  mine  own! 
I  want  you  to  laugh  or  to  cry  to — 

And  still— O,  and  still,  I'm  alone. 

They  are  lighting  the  myriad  burners 

At  Hasselman's  over  the  way; 
The  crowd  is  beginning  to  gather; 

The  band  is  beginning  to  play; 
Hark!  What  a  throbbing  and  sobbing 

Of  melody  tender  and  sweet, 
Stirs  the  pulse  of  the  rose  on  my  bosom 

Till  it  sinks  in  a  swoon  at  my  feet. 

Hark  again!    O  the  musical  army 

That  climbs  the  cold  steps  of  the  air 
To  storm  the  stronghold  of  my  spirit — 

It  gives  not  a  minute  for  prayer. 
It  has  me  and  holds  me,  a  captive 

Despite  all  my  wish  and  my  will — 
Afar  from  the  lake  and  the  lilies — 

Afar  from  the  daisy-decked  hill. 

Yet,  somehow,  it  brings  you  the  nearer, 
And  the  dark  grows  suddenly  light; 

The  heart  of  our  bird  in  his  prison, 
Like  mine,  has  forgotten  the  night. 


74  FAGOTS. 

The  fountain  flows  freer;  the  flowers 
Seem  swinging  in  sweetnesses  new; 

And  all  of  earth  fades  from  the  Heaven 
That  comes  with  the  music  and  you. 


FAGOTS.  75 


THROUGH  THE  SNOW. 

ONE  April  sunset,  singing  with  the  streams, 
I  sought — upon  a  happy  hill-side  slope — 

A  spot  that  I  had  dreamed  of  in  the  dreams 
Of  years  kept  calm  by  memory  and  hope. 

A  dainty  dimple  in  the  dear  hill's  breast — 
As  I  remembered — it  for  aye  had  been, 

A  dainty  dimple  by  the  winds  caressed — 
My  secret  folded  with  its  fairness  in. 

Laughing  a-low  I  leaned  there — parted  the  wet 
Bare  boughs  that  bent  beside  me  where  I  stood, 

And  said,  "  Ah,  surely  I  shall  here  forget 
The  famine  and  the  fever!    God  is  good." 

A  sudden  start — a  catching  of  the  breath — 
A  quick  down-dropping  of  the  hands,  for  lo, 

A  stillness  in  the  hollow  as  of  death, 
And  over  all  its  perfectness  the  snow. 

Prone  to  the  ground  (the  angels  pitying  me) 
I  fell  the  waving,  wondering  boughs  between, 

Clung  there  and  cried,  "  Ah  God!  that  this  should 

be, 
When  all  my  heart  was  hungry  for  the  green. 


76  FAGOTS. 

"  I  can  not,  can  not  bear  it !  "  From  my  breath 
The  frail  snows  faded,  feverish  and  wet, 

And  'round  me  floated  from  the  world  beneath, 
The  longed  for  fragrance  of  a  violet. 

So,  to  the  snow  of  all  your  words  my  friend, 
Found  in  the  letter  that  before  me  lies, 

My  soul  leans  crying,  "Christ!  is  this  the  end? " 
And  lo,  the  spirit  of  your  sacrifice 

Folds  every  fear  in  fragrance!  and  I  see 
(With  eyes  that  laugh,  albeit  their  lids  are  wet,) 

Ever  alive  and  ever  fair  to  me 
The  royal  purple  of  Love's  violet. 


FAGOTS. 


AWAY  FROM  ME. 

Do  you  find  the  heaven  I  can  not  reach, 

So  beautiful,  O  my  sweet! 
That  ever  in  vain  the  sea-swept  beach 

I  search  for  your  small  white  feet  ? 
Or  is  it,  my  love,  that  the  angels  there 

Whom  neither  I  know  nor  see, 
Finding  you  fairer  than  all  the  fair 

Hold  you  away  from  me  ? 

0  mine,  my  own  !    If  I  had  you  back 
In  the  poor  place  over  my  heart, 

1  think  I  could  tread  the  thorniest  track 
And  never  a  tear  would  start. 

I  think  I  could  welcome  the  wildest  storm; 

Could  laugh,  though  the  whole  world  wept, 
If  you  were  but  nestling  safe  and  warm 

Where  once  you  nestled  and  slept. 

But  the  raindrops  dimple  the  waves,  my  dear, 

And  I  am  alone,  alone, 
Listing  the  croak  of  the  ravens  near, 

And  wishing  my  heart  were  stone, 
For  it  aches  so  under  its  velvet  vest, 

And  dies — yet  never  is  dead — 
And  it  can  not  rise  and  it  can  not  rest, 

Missing  your  fair,  young  head. 


78  FAGOTS. 


A  LESSON. 

"  WAIL  your  wild  notes  over  and  over, 
Bonnie  bright  bird  in  the  sycamore  tree; 

For  long,  too  long,  like  an  unloved  lover, 
Has  the  wind  been  teasing  and  torturing  me! 

I  am  a-weary  of  working  and  weeping; 

Sing  me  to  quiet  and  sing  me  to  sleeping; 

Let  your  low  numbers  float  lightly  to  me, 

Bonnie  bright  bird  in  the  sycamore  tree  !  " 

Thus,  in  the  shadows,  prayed  a  lone  maiden, 
Leaning  her  face  from  the  bosom  of  care, 

While  the  wind,  sweetly  and  heavily  laden, 
Braided  his  heather-breath  in  with  her  hair. 

Lost  was  the  light  from  her  life  that  was  dreary; 

Lost  were  the  smiles  from  her  eyes  that  were  teary; 

Never  a  true  thing  to  treasure  had  she — 

The  fair  maiden  under  the  sycamore  tree. 

Down  from  the  dark  boughs  fluttered  the  robin, 

Furling  his  wings  on  the  folds  of  her  vest; 
"Kindred  are  we,  dear,"  murmured  she,  sobbing 

Over  a  death-wound  she  found  in  his  breast. 
Still,  in  his  agony,  singing  and  singing, 
Never  his  wild  way  again  to  be  winging, 
Seeming  as  happy  as  happy  could  be, 
Died  the  bright  bird  neath  the  sycamore  tree. 


FAGOTS.  79 


DERELICTUS. 

"  IN  the  noonday  sun  I  am  faint,  I  am  blind  !  " 

A  pale  little  Blossom  said; 
"Where  are  the  lips  of  my  lover,  the  Wind, 

To  kiss  me  back  from  the  dead  ? 

"  He  is  so  loyal,  so  tender  and  true; 

He  dwells  by  the  singing  sea; 

And  swift    he  would  haste— if   he   knew  — if  he 
knew — 

For  he  loves  no  one  but  me!  " 


Kneeling,  I  whispered:     "  Beautiful  flower, 

Cling  to  your  beautiful  faith! 
For  oh,  it  will  gladden  your  life's  last  hour, 

And  sweeten  the  way  to  death  ! " 

But  aside  :     "  Ah,  pretty,  forgotten  flower! 

'Tis  better  to  cease  to  be; 
For  your  lover  wooes  in  the  Rose's  bower, 

With  never  a  thought  of  thee! " 


8o  FAGOTS. 


WHERE  THE  TIDAL  WAVES  COME  IN. 


IF  you  and  I  were  together  now 

Where  the  tidal  waves  come  in; 
With  breast  to  bosom  and  brow  to  brow 

And  a  low,  low  murmuring — 
If  we  had  forgotten,  as  they  forget, 

The  dark  and  the  dreary  day, 
The  wailing  of  winds  all  wild  and  wet 

And  whatever  they  chose  to  say — 
If  much  was  to  ask  and  much  to  reply 

How  would  the  talk  begin, 
If  you  and  I  were  together  now 

Where  the  tidal  waves  come  in  ? 

ii. 
I  think  the  spirits  that,  long  and  far, 

Have  struggled  in  pain  and  tears, 
To  find  and  enter  the  "gates  ajar  " 

And  the  rest  of  roseate  years, 
Stand  still  and  dumb  when  the  new  life  first 

Leaps,  thrilling,  from  vein  to  vein, 
Crowding  the  old  with  its  best  and  worst 

Forever  from  heart  and  brain; 
So  we,  my  darling,  though  brow  to  brow, 

Could  scarcely  our  speech  begin, 
If  we  were  together,  together  now 

Where  the  tidal  waves  come  in. 


FAGOTS.  81 


ALWAYS. 

IF  from  your  lips,  my  friend,  that  one  small  word 

Fell  through  the  glooms  that  girdle  me  to-night, 
Fell,  rounding  "  I  shall  need  you,"  like  a  bird, 

My  life,  I  think,  would  climb  to  clearest  light, 
Forgot,  for  aye,  were  all  the  cruel  tides 

That  cast  me,  broken,  on  a  barren  coast; 
Forgot,  for  aye,  all  earth  save  that  which  bides 

In  the  safe  heaven  that  I  long  for  most. 


Around  me  in  the  fair  and  fragrant  space 

Floats  the  low  trilling  of  a  twilight  tune, 
But  from  its  heart  I  fail  to  catch  the  grace 

Of  dawns  that  darkened  when  the  month  was 

June. 
I  hear,  as  one  held  close  in  dusky  dreams, 

The  blue  waves  bounding  to  the  beaten  sands, 
But  calm  comes  not!    for,  reaching  through  the 
gleams 

Of  moon  and  star,  I  can  not  find  your  hands. 

And  yet,  dear  friend,  not  all  the  leagues,  unlit, 
Lying  this  side  the  land  for  which  I  pray, 

Can  hold  me  from  you  wholly!     You  will  sit 
Sometimes,  I  think,  your  sweet  eyes  turned  this 
way, 


82  FAGOTS. 

And  through  the  calms  that  cover  you,  a  note 
Of  some  low  song  I  sing  beside  the  sea, 

Breeze-like  and  bird-like  to  your  soul  will  float, 
Waking  the  wonder  of  a  cry  for  me. 

And  dreams  will  haunt  you  ever.     Dreams  that 
bear 

On  their  light  wings  the  tint  of  tender  rest — 
Of  rosy  rest — that  waiteth  for  us  where 

The  ways  wind  closely  at  the  soul's  behest. 
O,  blessed  dreams!    And  yet,  if  one  small  word 

Fell  through  the  glooms  that  girdle  me  to-night, 
Fell,  rounding  "I  shall  need  you,"  like  a  bird, 

How  would  my  life  soar,  singing  to  the  light! 


FAGOTS.  83 


HOMEWARD. 


"  MY  poor,  poor  eyes  they  are  blind  with  tears, 

And  I  can  not  work!  "  she  said, 
Tossing  aside  her  thimble  and  shears, 

And  winding  her  spools  of  thread. 

The  riotous  wind  with  her  roses  stayed 

A-wooing,  a-wooing  long; 
The  swallow  she  slept  all  undismayed, 

And  her  dreams  they  were  sweet  with  song. 
But  the  lady  lay  on  her  pillow  white, 

White  as  a  ghost  lay  she, 
Speeding  her  soul  on  a  lonely  flight 

To  her  lover  afar  at  sea. 

ii. 

"The  night  is  drunken  with  drear  alarm 

And  I  can  not  sleep!  "  she  said, 
Tossing  the  snow  of  a  weary  arm 

On  the  gold  of  a  weary  head. 

The  velvety  roses — foolish  things! 

A-nodding,  a-nodding  were 
To  the  wind  a-furling  his  wanton  wings, 

Where  the  lilies  were  all  astir. 


84  FAGOTS. 

But  the  lady  lay  at  her  lattice  low, 

Low  as  the  land  lay  she, 
With  every  beat  in  her  breast  a  blow 

For  her  lover  afar  at  sea. 

in. 

"  My  blood  is  fire,  my  breath  is  flame, 
And  I  can  not  live!  "  she  said, 

Wailing  the  words  of  her  lover's  name, 
As  if  he  were  doomed  and  dead. 

The  beautiful  ship  went  under  the  moon, 

A-sailing,  a-sailing  on 
To  the  wayward  time  of  a  wayward  tune, 

Till  the  half  world  met  the  dawn. 
And  the  lady  leaned  to  her  roses  sweet, 

Sweet  as  a  rose  leaned  she, 
Hearing  the  sound  of  her  lover's  feet 

And  happy  of  heart  as  he. 


FAGOTS.  85 


LAST  WORDS. 


AT  sunset  of  to-morrow  you  will  stand, 

Dear  friend,  with  sweet  eyes  turning  back  to  me, 
Remembering  how  you  stood  and  held  my  hand 

In  this  sad  hour  by  the  sadder  sea. 
We  have  few  words  at  parting — you  and  I — 

A  little  smiling  of  unquiet  lips, 
Some  common-places  and  a  low  good-bye — 

With  eyes  upon  the  far-off,  fading  ships- 
Are  all  that  could  be  told  of  if  the  world 

Told  all  to-morrow; — all  there  is  to  tell. 
The  mists  of  meeting  round  about  us  curled 

But  yesterday;  to-day? — no  matter!  it  is  well. 

ii. 

You  go  to  brave  life's  battle  for  us  both; 

To  bear  the  burden  and  the  heat  of  years 
That — leaning  from  the  far-away,  seem  loth 

To  yield  us  fruits  not  nurtured  by  our  tears. 
There  may  be  calms  and  comforts  manifold 

Lying  beneath  what  seems  to  us  to-day, 
The  blackness  of  a  bitterness  untold 

Shrouding  the  sweets  of  many  a  bloomful  May. 
We  can  not  know.     We  touch  poor  palms  and  part 

In  this  sad,  sunset  hour — you  and  I — 
Some  struggling  cries  held  silent  in  the  heart 

And  on  the  lip  a  simple,  slow  "good-bye!  " 


86  FAGOTS. 


AFTER  YEARS. 


WASN'T  it  neat,  though,  the  cottage  where  clam 
bered 

Roses  the  reddest  that  ever  you  knew  ? 
And  wasn't  it  sweet,  though,   the  wild  way  we 
wandered 

Over  the  hill  where  the  strawberries  grew  ? 
And  didn't  you  weave  me  a  girdle  of  grasses — 

Weaving  a  kiss  in  with  every  link  ? 
And  didn't  you  leave  rne  the  gladdest  of  lasses 

When  you  went  down  to  the  spring  for  a  drink. 


Oh,  but  the  blue-birds  went  singing  and  singing 

Into  the  heart  of  the  daisied  dells! 
Oh,  but  your  new  words  went  ringing  and  ringing 

Into  my  heart  like  a  flutter  of  bells! 
Oh,  but  you  loved  me,  you  said!  and  my  blushes 

Rivaled  the  strawberries  under  our  feet, 
And  oh,  but  you  proved  me  your  own  in  the  hushes 

Of  the  May  morning  so  tender  and  sweet! 


But  wasn't  it  queer,  though,  how  our  young  passion 
Faded  away  like  a  frolicksome  snow  ? 

For  weren't  you  dear,  though  (after  a  fashion), 
Just  for  a  little  short  summer  or  so  ? 


FAGOTS.  87 

Laughing  a  little,  I  toy  with  my  laces 

(Real,  with  a  clasping  of  diamonds,  dear), 

Thinking  how  brittle  are  ties  to  old  places — 
Thinking  how  mighty  the  bonds  that  are  here. 


And  who  is  to  blame  now  for  all  the  sweet  folly  ? 

You  are  the  king  of  a  castle;  and  I 
Would  say,  if  you  came  now — Wasn't  it  jolly, 

The  olden-time  dreaming,  forever  gone  by  ? 
For  what  needs  a  woman  but  jewels  and  laces, 

And  station  to  make  all  her  living  divine  ? 
No  matter  how  human  the  cry  for  old  places, 

It  can  not  be  heard  in  this  kingdom  of  mine! 


FAGOTS. 


BIJOU. 

LITTLE  Bijou,  walking  nearer 

To  the  angels  far  than  I, 
Come  across  the  moonlit  spaces 

To  the  shadows  where  I  lie, 
And  with  lips  the  Christ  has  clung  to 

Tell  me  something  sweet  and  true, 
For  my  reaching  hands  are  weary, 

And  my  heart  is  weary,  too. 

Battle-stained  and  heavy-burdened 

I  am  facing  up  the  night, 
Catching  breath  and  calling  to  you 

From  the  pauses  of  the  fight. 
Come,  and  let  my  fevered  fingers 

Find  your  tresses  free  and  fair, 
Till  my  life  can  lean  to  comfort 

From  the  fastnesses  of  care. 

Come,  and  let  me  watch  the  glory 

Growing  in  your  wondrous  eyes, 
Sweeter  far  than  song  or  story 

Of  Italia's  sunset  skies. 
Come,  and  say  if  in  your  dreaming 

By  the  happy,  haunted  sea 
You  have  ever  seen  the  maiden 

Whom  the  angels  keep  for  me. 


FAGOTS.  89 

I  have  heard  her  garments  rustling 

'Round  me  in  the  lonesome  nights, 
And  have  felt  my  pulses  leaping, 

To  the  life  of  old  delights. 
But  I  could  not  see  the  shining 

Of  her  beauty-beaming  eyes, 
Though  my  wailing  must  have  compassed 

All  the  heights  of  Paradise. 

Lean  a  little  nearer,  Bijou! 

Do  not  look  so  white  and  wild; 
I  am  ghostly  in  the  darkness, 

But  I  could  not  harm  a  child. 
For  the  battle  not  yet  over 

I  would  only  stronger  stand, 
For  the  clasping  and  the  clinging 

Of  a  little  maiden's  hand. 


And  you  walk  so  near  the  angels, 

All  their  secrets  you  must  know; 
You  can  tell  me  if  she  loves  me 

As  she  loved  me  long  ago. 
You  can  tell  me —  Hark!  the  rising 

And  the  ringing  battle-call. 
Kiss  me,  Bijou!    Rest  is  over. 

There,  my  darling,  that  is  all! 


90  FAGOTS. 


LOST. 

i. 

THE  white  sails  come,  and  the  white  sails  go, 

And  the  days  drift  to  and  from  me, 
And  happiest  sprites  of  Autumnal  nights 

Drop  silverest  dews  upon  me. 
But  never  my  pulses  leap  and  thrill 

When  the  tell-tale  zephyr  passes, 
At  sound  of  thy  laugh  in  the  boat's  bright  path, 

Or  sound  of  thy  feet  in  the  grasses. 


ii. 


But  over  the  glitter  of  goldenest  bars, 

When  the  winds  of  my  life  blow  chilly, 
My  heart  flutters  back  in  a  shadowy  track, 

To  the  land  of  the  rose  and  the  lily. 
And  once,  once  again,  O  beloved!  away 

Over  billow  and  blossoming  heather, 
Beside   the  low    streams  we   are    dreaming   our 
dreams, 

And  weaving  our  life-hopes  together. 

in. 

Ah,  darling!  my  face,  with  its  quivering  lips, 

Shut  close  o'er  a  storm  of  sighing, 
Leans  whitely  adown  the  green  hills  where  the 
crown 

Of  my  life,  with  its  glory,  is  lying. 


FAGOTS.  91 

And  the  white  sails  come,  and  the  white  sails  go, 

And  the  wind  sings  on  as  it  passes, 
For  lost  is  thy  laugh  from  the  boat's  bright  path, 

And  gone  are  thy  feet  from  the  grasses. 


92  FAGOTS. 


HER  ANSWER. 

GOOD-BYE!  There  have  been  tears,  and  kisses; 

These  are  my  last. 
No  more  a- wail  for  summer-bloom,  and  blisses 

Long  ago  past — 
Stand  I  a-near  the  winter  with  its  snowing 

Hard  in  my  face; 
Blind,  breathless,  groping  in  the  dark,  yet  knowing 

This  is  my  place. 

Good-bye!  God's  hand  upon  my  shadowed  vision, 

Soon  will  give  light 
Somewhere,  the  break  of  day  that  is  elysian 

Waits  for  my  night. 
Shall  I — because  my  life's  one  dream  is  over, 

Shrink  from  life's  toil, 
Crying  because  I  can  not  scent  the  clover 

Sweet  from  the  soil  ? 

Nay,  nay!  I  were  unworthy  Heaven's  high  keeping, 

Could  this  be  so; 
Dumb  as  the  dead,  and  cold — yet  without  weeping, 

Whitely  I  go. 
No  bird,  upon  the  bough  above  me,  singing 

At  Love's  behest; 
No  star  its  radiance  to  my  pathway  flinging 

Still— it  is  best! 


FAGOTS.  93 

Good-bye!  Thine  is  the  cup,  the  song,  the  revel— 

(Mine  is  the  pain!) 
God  keep  thee  from  the  sorrow  and  the  evil 

Found  in  their  train. 
Turn  I  unto  my  winter  with  its  snowing 

Hard  in  my  face; 
Blind,  breathless,  groping  in  the  dark,  yet  knowing 

This  is  my  place. 


94  FAGOTS. 


HAUNTING  THE  HOLLOW. 

DROOPING  sad  eyes  to  the  snow-covers  lying 
Over  a  hollow  that  heard  not  our  words, 

Walked  we  but  yesterday,  gloomily  crying — 
"  O  for  the  sound  of  the  singing  of  birds!  " 


"O  for  the  olden-time  splendor  of  spaces 
Round  us  and  over  us,  summery  sweet! 

O  for  the  olden-time  winds  on  our  faces! 
O  for  the  olden-time  blooms  at  our  feet!  " 

Lifting  glad  eyes  to  the  glory  of  arches 
Daintily  dotted  by  song-burdened  birds, 

Walk  we  to-day,  keeping  time  to  the  marches 
Of  the  warm,  wanton  winds,  wild  as  our  words. 

Walk  we  with  pulses  that  beat  to  the  beating 
Of  the  quick  river  that  cries  to  the  sea; 

"  Room  in  thy  bosom!  And  give  me  thy  greeting, 
For  my  world- walls  are  too  narrow  for  me.  " 

All  the  old  wailing  of  winter  forgotten; 

All  the  old  snow-covers  folded  away; 
Crowned  with  a  splendor  of  springtime  begotten 

Haunt  we  the  heart  of  the  hollow  to-day. 


FAGOTS.  95 


O  SUMMER,  DEAR  SUMMER. 


O  SUMMER,   where  are  you?  What  voice  do  you 
follow, 

Singing  or  sighing  through  regions  unknown  ? 
What  luminous  height  or  what  desolate  hollow 

Laughs  to  your  laughter  or  moans  to  your  moan? 
What  fetters  of  living  or  dying  enthrall  you? 

What  hath  you  in  silence  that  gladdens  or  grieves  ? 
What  strange  thing  enamors  ?  that  vainly  I  call  you 

To  come  to  and  comfort  your  children  the  Leaves! 

n. 
Is  there  no  wind  to  your  gloom  or  your  gleaming, 

Bearing  the  breath  of  their  pitiful  prayers  ? 
Lonely  they  lie  under  boughs  that  are  dreaming 

Of  new  loves  already,  forgetful  of  theirs. 
And  you  were  so  tender  !    You  loved  as  none  other 

All  the  dear  days  that  the  robins  made  sweet; 
You  robed  them  and  rocked  them;  you  are  their 
mother, 

Yet,  far  from  your  bosom,  they  die  at  my  feet. 


in. 


Have  I  of  comfort  a  little  to  give  them, 
I,  with  a  frost  on  my  hair  and  my  heart  ? 

Nay!  though  I  love,  as  I  surely  outlive  them, 
Comfort  is  not  of  my  power  a  part— 


96  FAGOTS. 

Only  your  singing  can  call  back  the  flushes, 
If  flushes  come  ever,  to  lives  that  you  gave; 

And  you  are  as  still  as  my  love  in  the  hushes, 
That  rule  all  the  wonderful  world  of  the  grave! 

IV. 

O  Summer,  dear  Summer!  the  Winter  is  weaving 

For  your  lost  little  ones'  pillow  and  pall, 
And  somewhere,  ah,  somewhere,  I  think  you  are 
grieving 

That  over  them  even  your  tears  may  not  fall. 
Gone  are  the  robins  to  haunts  that  I  know  not; 

Under  a  cold  cloud  everything  grieves; 
Snows  are  a-flutter  where  sunshine  may  go  not — 

Over  the  graves  of  your  childern,  the  Leaves. 


FAGOTS.  97 


WHEN  THE  SHADOWS  COME  AGAIN. 


WHEN  the  shadows  come  again 
Over  hill  and  over  plain, 
Creeping  through  the  lattice  bars 
Where  I  wait  to  watch  the  stars; 
When  again  within  his  ring 
Bonnie  bird  forgets  to  sing — 
Wooed  from  riot  unto  rest 
By  the  dark  upon  his  breast, 
I  shall  listen,  O  my  sweet! 
To  the  coming  of  your  feet, 
Saying,  "Soft!    He  hunts  the  hall, 
And  he  loves  me! "    That  is  all. 


When  the  shadows  come  again 
Over  hill  and  over  plain, 
Purpling  all  the  plaited  hair, 
You  have  called  so  fine  and  fair; 
When,  o'er  all  our  little  world, 
Is  the  wing  of  Night  unfurled. 
I  shall  feel  my  pulses  rise 
Past  the  height  of  Paradise, 
List'ning,  leaning,  O  my  King! 
To  the  vows  you  say  and  sing; 
Praying,  "Angels!  do  not  call, 
For  he  loves  me!  "    That  is  all. 


98  FAGOTS. 

When  the  shadows  come  again 
Over  hill  and  over  plain, 
In  the  land  of  the  forgiven — 
In  th£  garden  name"d  Heaven — 
Fairest  of  the  saintly  fair, 
With  white  lilies  in  her  hair; 
With  her  girdle  golden-barred; 
With  her  sandles  silver-starred, 
One  will  walk  beside  the  river 
That  flows  on  and  on  forever, 
Praying,  "  Let  no  ill  befall — 
For  I  love  them!"     That  is  all. 


FAGOTS.  99 


ELLEANORE. 

WHERE  a  sycamore  bent  to  a  river's  edge, 

At  the  foot  of  a  flowery  hill, 
And  birds  swung  slow  in  the  swinging  sedge, 

With  their  songs  all  hushed  and  still, 
With  silences  over  her  lips  apart, 
With  somebody's  portrait  over  her  heart, 
With  nothing  to  trouble  and  nothing  to  task, 
Nothing  to  answer  and  nothing  to  ask, 
Fair — as  the  fading  out  of  the  day — 
Under  the  waters  asleep  she  lay. 

Out  from  the  woodland  crept  the  Dark, 

With  his  face  all  wild  and  wet, 
And  close  by  the  sycamore  stood  to  hark 

To  the  Wind's  and  the  Waves'  regret. 
"  O,  she  was  my  darling!  "  the  River  cried; 
And  "  She  was  my  darling!  "  the  Wind  replied; 
And  the  Dark  responded,  "  She  was  my  love! 
"And  nothing  was  like  her,  below  or  above," 
And,  all  together,  "Alas!  "  they  said, 
"  What  is  there  left  us  ?— the  queen  is  dead!  " 

And  still,  with  the  portrait  over  her  heart, 
And  the  blue-black  waves  above, 

The  maiden  slept,  with  her  lips  apart, 
As  if  in  a  dream  of  love. 


ioo  FAGOTS. 

But  dreams  were  over  and  dreams  were  done; 
And  the  moon  crept  off  in  the  wake  of  the  sun; 
And  the  owlets  shrieked  and  the  Wind  replied, 
And  the  desolate  Dark  to  the  River  cried, 
And  nobody  sorrowed  and  nobody  said: 
"  What  is  there  left  me  ?  my  love  is  dead! " 


FAGOTS.  101 


IN  THE  .WALTZ. 

A  TENDER  tune  and  a  time  in  trance, 

Glitter  of  glasses  and  wealth  of  wine, 
And  afloat,  afloat  in  a  dreamy  dance, 

With  the  face  of  my  Baronet  close  to  mine. 
His  glances,  that  rival  the  gaslight  gleams, 

Burning  and  burning  my  lids  away; 
But  I  hear  his  whisper,  as  one  in  dreams, 

And  my  lips  have  never  a  word  to  say. 

For  'round  and  'round,  as  we  whirl  and  whirl, 

Under  the  banners  and  blooms  between, 
I  see  but  billows,  that  curl  and  curl 

'Round  capes  of  memory  fair  and  green; 
And  again,  again,  in  a  radiant  time, 

My  hand  in  yours,  that  is  kind  and  true, 
I  fly  from  the  measures,  that  climb  and  climb, 

Away  from  the  dancers,  alone  with  you. 

And  softly  and  softly  up  over  the  bay 

Comes  the  full  moon,  with  her  face  so  new, 
A-laughing  and  laughing  at  something  you  say, 

And  something  I  answer!  and  we  laugh,  too; 
For  life  is  alive  and  love  is  awake; 

The  moon  it  is  high  and  the  wind  is  low; 
You  give  me  a  kiss  and  a  kiss  you  take, 

And  there's  nobody,  nobody  nigh  to  know. 


102  FAGOTS. 


A  tender  tune  and  a  time  in  trance, 

Glitter  of  glasses  and  wealth  of  wine, 
And  I,  a-wail  for  the  one  romance 

I  lived  in  a  life  that  was  half  divine! 
The  Baronet's  jewels  are  over  rny  heart, 

The  Baronet's  name  I  honor  and  wear; 
But  love  "  is  a  thing  from  our  lives  apart," 

And  neither  is  cruel  enough  to  care. 


PRESS     NOTICES 

The  sixth  annual  convention  of  the  Pacific  Coast 
Woman's  Press  Association  was  held  at  San  Jose,  Sep 
tember  8th  and  gth.  Mrs.  Hester  Benedict  Dickinson 
was  chosen  president  The  P.  C.  W.  P.  A.  is  composed 
of  genuine  literary  workers,  many  of  whom  have 
achieved  a  brilliant  reputation,  and  among  these  the  new 
president  has  a  high  place.  She  has  published  two  vol 
umes  of  poetry,  "Vesta"  and  "  Fagots."  She  now  has 
a  volume  of  prose  ready  for  the  press.  Mrs.  Dickison 
is  described  as  a  woman  of  great  culture  and  many 
charms.  She  was  formerly  a  resident  of  New  York, 
and  in  touch  with  the  leading  writers  of  the  metropolis. 
She  has  been  a  contributor  to  many  of  the  leading  peri 
odicals  of  the  country. — Buffalo  Times. 

Two  volumes  of  poems  by  Hester  A.  Benedict  have 
attracted  the  flattering  criticism  of  reviewers  and  readers, 
"Vesta"  being  the  first  one  placed  upon  the  literary 
market.  "  Fagots,"  published  recently,  is  a  collection 
which  reflects  the  delicate  imaginings  of  the  author's 
fancy  and  the  sweet  womanly  depth  of  a  warmly  sym 
pathetic  nature. — Pacific  Town  Talk. 

The  book  "Vesta"  is  full  of  passages  of  rare  beauty 
for  poems  of  the  day.  It  is  the  best  that  we  have  known 
issued  for  years  from  the  pen  of  an  American  woman. 

Louisville  Courier- Journal. 

The  poems  are  brimful  of  gentle  sympathy ;  they  stir 

and  refresh  the  heart  like  a  summer  breeze.     *     *     * 
The  volume  is  bright  from  first  to  last.     In  fact  there  is 

not  a  dull  line  in  it. — California  Christian  Advocate. 
There  is    good   stuff  and   no   rotten    sticks    in    these 

"  Fagots." — Cleveland  Plain  Dealer. 

The  poems  are  in  many  measures,  all    of  which  the 

author  seems  to  handle  with  equal  skill. — Sun  Francisco 

Chronicle. 

Hester  A.  Benedict's  latest  effort  more  than  sustains 

her  early  reputation.     "Fagots"  is  not  only   a  finished 

literary  production,  but  the  song  she  sings  comes  from 

he  heart. — St.  Paul  Morning  Call. 


YB 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


